


A Shattered Amell

by KassANyx



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Shattered Amell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 81,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassANyx/pseuds/KassANyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young girl with a terrible fear meets a kind man who represents the thing she fears. Will she be able to get past her terror to see who he really is and fullfill her true potential?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> _I am the original author. First posted on Sept 29, 2011 on deviantART. You can find it[here](http://fav.me/d4b9kel)._

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story begins a few years before DAO starts. Sha is approximately 15 in this story, being 4 when the templars took her, and was healed in the Gallows before being sent to Fereldon's circle. 
> 
> Not much is said about Cullen's age, although how he manages to look younger in DA2 than in DAO completely baffles me. For purposes of this story, I'm putting him around 17 for his fist meeting with Sha and having just taken his vows.
> 
> Because of her young age at the time she was taken to the circle, Sha doesn't remember exactly what happened. She remembers the pain, the words her uncle said to her last, and the sword of mercy from the templar's chestplate. Thus she associates everything that happened with the templar's symbol, carrying an irrational terror of stepping out of line and being slain.

“Hurry, Sha,” Jowan hissed as he rushed down the hallway. “You know how Senior Enchanter Sweeney gets. Can never tell any of us apart, so he always thinks we’re trouble makers.”  


“I’m hurrying,” Shattered called back to him, balancing her books precariously.  


“Hurry faster! We’re already late.”  


Shattered shuffled along, trying not to drop her books. With them stacked in front of her, she couldn’t see much, making it an easy task for the rug to trip her. She cried out, tumbling to the floor, her books scattering everywhere.  


“Jowan, help me, please,” she called, looking to her friend at the end of the hall.  


Jowan looked back at her, shifting his weight indecisively. “I’m sorry, Sha,” he said finally, turning to scurry away from her.  


Shattered knelt on the floor, feeling completely hopeless for a moment before steeling her nerves and hastily gathering her books. Sr. Enchanter Sweeney would surely be cross, but at least she could try to make him understand. It certainly was better than sitting on the floor feeling sorry for herself.  


“What are you doing?”  


The question caught Sha off guard, she hadn’t heard anyone approaching. For a brief moment, she thought Jowan had returned to help her, relief flooding her as she turned toward the voice, only to see a templar standing over her.  


Panic and terror washing over her, Shattered scrambled to the wall, huddling in a tight ball against it, sobs wracking her body. Just seeing the templars was enough to give her the shakes, to be stuck anywhere with one, alone, was unthinkable. Memories of her childhood came rushing back to her, causing her to whimper and press closer to the wall.  


“Please, Ser Templar, I’m a good girl,” Shattered cried out. “I tripped and dropped my books. I didn’t mean to be late; I didn’t mean to be bad.” She squeezed her eyes shut, but in her mind she could see the templar from long ago towering over her.

  


_“Get her out of my sight,” Uncle Aristide was shrieking even as he hit the tiny girl child in front of him. “She’s ruined us! Dumar will get the seat because of her,” his large fists pummeled into her again and a cracking sound could be heard from the four year old's ribs. “I will kill her!”_  


_The tiny child screamed in pain, her hand reaching toward her mother, Revka, right before Aristide broke her arm. Revka was sobbing, tears streaming down her face as she tried to pull away from the servants that grimly held her back.  
_

_“No, please! My baby! Stop uncle, you’re killing her,” Revka cried hysterically.  
_

_The templars burst through the front door, shocked at the sight that greeted them.  
_

_“Maker’s breath, man, what have you done?” Before them on the ground lay a broken and bruised child. It was clear she would need medical attention, quickly, if she were to survive. Both of her arms and one leg lay at awkward angles, at best, dislocated, at worst, multiple fractures. Bloody froth trickled from her nose and mouth, gurgling up with every shallow breath she took. Tears and blood made their way down her small, bruised face.  
_

_“They’ve come to kill you, mage,” Aristide sneered in her face. “That’s what templars do. They kill bad girls that are mages.”  
_

_The tiny, battered form started to cry, a horrible gurgling wail.  
_

_As one of the templars gathered her tiny body up as carefully as he could, the other turned to Aristide Amell. “What is her name, Serrah? We’ll need to know what to call her.”  
_

_Lord Aristide Amell spit on his own floor. “She’s shattered this family’s chances at power, the hideous little abomination. Call her that, if you wish to call her anything, before you kill her,” he waved dismissively.  
_

_The templar looked to Revka, but the woman was far too hysterical to make any sense. “Well,” he said, “you’ve certainly shattered her.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Takes a big man to beat a child within an inch of death.” He joined his counterpart as they took their leave of the Amell estate, leaving Lord Aristide sputtering and indignant.  
_

_The mages of the Circle healed her physically, but mental scars run deep. It didn’t stop her from cowering, teary eyed, at any templar that neared her. The words from her uncle echoed through her head whenever she saw the sword of mercy emblazoned on their breastplate._

  


Over the past ten years in Kinloch Hold, Shattered had gotten much better at seeing the templars about. It was only when alone with one that the irrational fear they would kill her for no good reason would race through her veins. This templar had a good reason. She was late to her studies. Sr. Enchanter Sweeney had likely sent him to find her. Had likely given the templar instructions to kill her on sight for being a bad girl, for being a mage.  


Shattered sobbed, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she wished she could turn into a mouse and scurry away.  


To her surprise, the templar removed his helm and knelt before her. “Are you all right,” he asked, concern on his features. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?” His eyes searched her face.  


Cullen’s heart stuttered in his chest. The girl’s face was filled with terror. He wanted to wipe it away, to make everything better. She was beautiful, he could get lost in her violet eyes. In his heart, he knew he would do anything in his power to chase her fear away and make her smile.  


“The Sr. Enchanter didn’t send you to kill me,” she whispered suspiciously.  


Cullen smiled, “No. I just happened upon you. Would you like a hand with all of these books,” he offered.  


Sha swallowed nervously. “As you like, Ser Templar.”  


“Cullen,” he said, putting his helm back on.  


“As you like. Cullen,” she said quietly.  
 


	2. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A secret guadian and an unknown race for Shattered's fate. Will Cullen be able to tear down the wall of fear Shattered has built around herself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the original author of the _A Shattered Amell_ fan series. This was originally posted on deviantArt on October 3, 2011.

# Revelation

 

Gathering his nerve, Cullen tapped at the door to the Knight-Commander’s office.  Hearing the gruff voice of his superior answer from inside, the young Templar took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

“You wished to see me, Knight-Commander,” he enquired, pleased that he had managed to not squeak.   Having taken his vows to the Chantry only a few months prior, Cullen was sure he had stepped out of line somehow to be called before the Knight-Commander.  He kept his body rail straight, inwardly cringing over the browbeating he was sure he was about to receive from Greagoir.  

“Ah, very prompt.  That’s a good sign,” the Knight-Commander stated, looking up from his desk to eye Cullen.  Greagoir ran a hand tiredly over his face and gestured for Cullen to be seated across from him.

Still unsure if he was there to be punished, Cullen sat at the edge of the seat, clasping his hands together in front of him.

Crossing his arms, Greagoir sighed.  “I have a special mission for you, Ser Cullen,” the man began.  “There is an apprentice within our care.  She is by all counts a kind heart who cares greatly for her fellows.  Her magical aptitude is astounding.  First Enchanter Irving and I both agree that she would be a great asset to the Circle.”  

Greagoir paused, frowning, and stood to pace behind his desk.  Cullen shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure what this had to do with his summons.  The Knight-Commander stopped his pacing, gazing out the window in his office that looked out over Lake Calenhad toward the docks.

“There is a problem, however,” he continued softly.  “This apprentice I speak of has suffered greatly in her past.  Because of this, she holds a great fear of Templars.”  

Cullen’s ears perked up, his fidgeting gone as he wondered if Greagoir could be speaking of the frail girl he had met in the hallway recently.

“The Grand Cleric is of the opinion that the girl should be made Tranquil,” Greagoir shook his head, turning to look at Cullen.  “I disagree.  I have watched her grow from a child to the cusp of womanhood.  In the ten years she has studied here, her alarm at the very sight of a Templar has lessened considerably.”  The man moved to stand next to the young Templar.  “Whatever the Circle mages wish to think of me, I would not have a mage that is not a danger be made Tranquil.  Time is running out, though.  The Grand Cleric has given us until the end of the year.  At that time, she will either undergo the Rite of Tranquility, or be Harrowed.”

The Knight-Commander placed a strong hand on Cullen’s shoulder.  “Cullen, I need your help.”

Cullen swallowed, nodding.  “What would you have me do, Knight-Commander?”

Greagoir moved back to his desk.  “You will be her guardian, her shadow.  I will be taking you off of regular watch rotations, but I want you to follow Miss Amell; stay near her acting as though you are on post, if you must.  Do anything you can to aid her; befriend her.  She is not much younger than yourself; it shouldn’t be too hard to get close to her.”  The man sighed deeply.  “She has a great potential, Cullen.  I would not see that snuffed out before it has been realized.  We must get her to a point that the Grand Cleric will not demand she be made Tranquil.”

“Ser, what if,” Cullen bit his lip, looking away from his superior.  “What if she wishes to go outside?”

Greagoir frowned, shaking his head.  “She would not wish to leave the Circle.  She would see it as an act punishable by death.”

“Ah, no Ser,” Cullen clarified, “I meant for herbal study and such.  I am aware that some of the apprentices may get permission to collect and even grow herbs here on the island.”

Smiling, Greagoir nodded.  “That,” he said, pointing to Cullen, “is the kind of thinking that will save our apprentice.  Being outside the tower walls would help her see the Templar accompanying her as more of a protector and less of a threat.  As long as she is escorted by you, I give you my full permission to go where and do as she wishes.  Within reason, of course,” he added as an afterthought.  

Cullen nodded.  “I have one other question, if you will, Knight-Commander.”  Greagoir nodded his head gravely.  “Might I inquire into the circumstances that occurred to cause this…terror in Miss Amell?”

Looking suddenly very old, Greagoir sighed.  “You have a right to know, since you will be dealing with her on a daily basis from now on.  I would think less of you had you not asked.”  The man took hold of a scroll from his desk, walking to stand next to Cullen; he looked down at his subordinate.  “This scroll does not leave this room, nor do its contents get discussed outside of this room, am I clear?”

Cullen swallowed harshly, nodding his acceptance.  The Knight-Commander sighed, then finally handed the scroll over.  He walked to the office door as Cullen broke the seal to unfurl the parchment.

“I will be gone from my office until the noon meal, Cullen,” Greagoir said softly.  “You will leave the scroll on my desk before you leave.  If you wish to speak of the contents, we will do so after we’ve eaten.”  Knight-Commander Greagoir quietly slipped out of his office, leaving Cullen to read the capture report from eleven years ago of a four year old child called Shattered Amell.

“Maker, give her strength,” Greagoir thought, as he briefly leaned against the door after closing it behind him.  Shaking himself, he strolled through the tower halls, making his way toward the first floor library where he knew that Sha would be studying at this time of day.  

Quietly, he slipped in, taking up a spot along the wall as he watched the girl he loved like a daughter pour over books.  When she’d first arrived so long ago, his heart had ached for the tiny child.  The mages in Kirkwall may have healed her wounds, but that didn’t make her any less broken.  He wanted to protect her, and he certainly didn’t want to think of her as Tranquil.  Those former mages were creepy, and he couldn’t bear the thought of Sha becoming one of them.   

Greagoir sighed as he watched her.  “I hope I have chosen the correct course of action,” he thought.  “Her life depends on it.”

 

Cullen skipped the noon meal, choosing instead to remain in the Knight-Commander’s office.  His guts were roiling.  How could anyone have been so cruel to a child?  He ran his hands through his hair, his heart aching at the images the report had described.  Such a small girl, no wonder she had been terrified when he had come upon her in the hallway.  For a trusted family member to have done such a thing was unthinkable.

“Ah, I see you’re still here,” Greagoir said, entering the office.  “Was there something further you wished to know?”

Nodding grimly, Cullen met the older man’s eyes.  “Did the monster that did this meet justice?”

Greagoir moved though the office, taking the seat behind his desk.  “Not the justice you speak of, but justice none the less.  From what I hear of the Amells from the Knight-Commander of the Kirkwall Circle, the family has spiraled into obscurity.  It will no longer be a name attached to a position of power in the Free Marches.”  The Knight-Commander inclined his head.  “If there is nothing else?”

Cullen stood, moving toward the door.  He paused, his hand resting on the door handle.  “Where is she,” he asked quietly.  

“Sitting in the back corner of the first floor library.  You will know her by her violet eyes,” the Knight-Commander answered him.  

With a nod, Cullen left the office, striding purposefully toward the library.

Pushing through the doors, Cullen took a deep breath to steady himself.  There she was, her back to the corner, her nose fairly pressed to the page of the book she was reading.  A smile tugged across his face watching her, his heart speeding up. 

Moving over toward her table, he arrived just as the tower’s mouser, Mr. Wiggums, pounced in the middle of Sha’s study material, scattering books and parchment to the floor in a fashion typical of a cat who thinks petting it should be everyone’s first priority.

Sha let out a musical laugh at the cat’s antics, making Cullen’s blood heat up.  How could someone so beautiful be so broken inside?  He knelt down, reaching for one of her fallen books, and met her hand as she bent to retrieve it.  

They both froze.

Slowly, Cullen raised his eyes, meeting the violet ones that had plagued his dreams since first seeing them.  Even now, he could see her fear shining brightly at him.

“Hi,” he breathed out, softly.

She stammered at him, “I am so sorry, Ser Templar, I – Cullen?”  Her brow furrowed in confusion, but he could see some of her fear fade from her face.  

Rocking forward slightly into a kneeling position, Cullen lifted his helm just enough to show his lop sided grin, letting her recognize the face that went with his voice.

“Would you like some help gathering your things,” he enquired, reseating his helm.

“As you like.  Cullen,” she said his name tentatively, a small smile quirking the corners of her mouth and leaving the Templar feeling like the breath had been knocked out of his body.

Cullen was grateful that his helm hid the flush he was certain was climbing his cheeks as he gazed at her through the helm’s eye slit.  “Maker,” he thought, “she is beautiful.  Please, help me save her.”

 

 


	3. Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something ominous happens, interupting a friendly outing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the original author of the _A Shattered Amell_ fan series. This was first posted on deviantArt on 20 Oct, 2011.

# Sunshine

 

Sha shifted nervously, clutching her satchel to her chest.  

“Are you sure it’s okay,” she asked quietly.

Cullen smiled gently at her, beckoning with his free hand.  “Of course I’m sure.  Knight-Commander Greagoir himself authorized it.”  Seeing Sha still rooted in place, Cullen raised the bucket he carried in his other hand, jingling the tools inside it.  “It’ll be fun,” he said.  “You’ll get to dig around in the soil, get dirty, maybe find some earthworms.”

Carroll chuckled from his post next to the tower door.  “Yeah, that sounds like a grand old time, right?”

Sha stared at him, her violet eyes opened wide and her knuckles turning white from the tight grip she was keeping on her bag.

Shaking his head, Cullen asked, “How have you managed to pass your herbalism classes so far?”

Blushing, Sha’s gaze dropped to her toes.  “I, um, have an arrangement with Neria.  She, uh, gathers twice the amount of plants needed, and I do all the mixing.”  Shattered shifted nervously, glancing up at Cullen.

He smiled at her.  “Don’t you think it’s time you gathered your own ingredients?”

Sha shuffled forward, stopping before she crossed the tower door’s threshold.  She bit her lip.  “I’ve never…I mean, I haven’t,” her eyes sought out Cullen’s, pleading.  “Not since…”  She looked away, blushing.

Comprehension dawned in Cullen’s eyes.  “You mean to say you’ve never set foot out of the tower since you arrived here?”  The color darkened in Sha’s cheeks, giving him the answer her mouth couldn’t work out.  

With a gentle smile, Cullen reached out and pulled one of Sha’s hands from her satchel.  He tenderly cradled her delicate hand in his armored one, ignoring Carroll’s incredulous stare.  “Don’t worry,” he said softly, “I’ll be right here by your side.  I won’t let any scary spiders carry you off,” he teased.

Sha smiled tremulously as she looked up at him.  Cullen took a step forward, tugging at her arm.  Shaking, she took the last step past the massive iron doors that caged the mages and into the sunshine for the first time since coming to Kinloch Hold.

Cullen stood in the early morning light, taking a deep breath, enjoying being out of the tower on such a fine spring day.

Sha watched him, then imitated his actions.  “It smells green,” she said in surprise.

“Green?” Cullen laughed down at her.  “I did not know a color could smell.”

Sheepishly looking down, Sha answered, “Then what would you call it?”

“It smells like spring,” he said.  “Everything is fresh and just starting to grow.  The trees are budding, the flowers are blooming,” he sighed happily.  “Life is starting to move forward.”  He smiled down at her.  “Come; let’s get moving so we can start your garden.”  Cullen released her hand and moved down the steps.

The twinge of disappointment she felt at the loss of contact surprised Sha as she hurried to stay close to the templar.  “Are we going far,” she asked.

“The other side of the island,” Cullen called to her, over his shoulder.  He kept up his ground eating stride, desperate to keep ahead of her until his blushing stopped.  His heart was still hammering from holding her hand, despite his gauntlet having kept him from touching her skin directly.  

Sha squeaked with surprise.  “Why that far,” she asked breathlessly, her shorter legs unable to keep up with Cullen’s long ones.  “Can we slow down a little?”

“You’ll see,” he grinned, a twinge of shame at having set such a brutal pace for her causing him to slow so she could catch up.  “It’s one of my favorite places on the whole island.”

Sha eyed him, “Okay, Mr. Mysterious,” she teased.  “Can you at least tell me what’s in the satchel?”

He nodded.  “Of course.  That’s our lunch, as well as the seeds we’ll be planting for your garden.”

“You’re quite serious about this, aren’t you?”

Smiling, Cullen paused, turning to look at her.  “I am very serious about this.  I think it’ll be good for you to have a reason to come outside.”

Wrinkling her nose, Sha looked up at the templar before her.  “What’s good about being outside?  I’m more likely to get into trouble out here.”

“How do you figure,” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her before continuing onward.

“Well,” Sha began, “what if a templar,” Cullen glanced at her, “I mean, another templar, not you – “

“Oh, so I don’t count as a templar now?  Good to know,” Cullen teased her, smiling.

Sha rolled her eyes at him in exasperation.  “Oh, you know what I mean!  Now will you let me finish?”  Cullen laughed at her, nodding.  “Okay, so another templar comes along, and doesn’t believe me when I tell them I have permission to be out here?  He could run me through and I would bleed all over the place.”  She clutched at her abdomen, hands on an imaginary wound.  

Cullen gaped at her as she let out a small gasp, weakly raising the back of her hand to her forehead and staggering theatrically against him.  

“There would be blood and tears everywhere!  It would be very dramatic,” she nodded for emphasis.  

“Did you just make a joke?”

Sha bit her lip and looked away.  “Maybe?”

Cullen tsked at her.  “Don’t worry,” he said, daring to glance at her.  “That’s why I’m here, to stop something like that from happening.”  He smiled reassuringly.

“Okay, and what if you fall down a well?  What then?  I could be going to get help, and this other templar would see me and run me through without letting me tell him you’re in trouble.  Then you would die and I wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

The anxiety in her voice startled Cullen.  Sha bumped into him as he stopped walking, turning to look down at her.  She blinked up at him, anxiety bright in her eyes.

“This is really bothering you, isn’t it,” he asked.  She looked away, biting her lip, and nodded.  “Don’t worry, the templars here all know you, they’re not going to run you through just because you’re outside.”

She raised her eyes to look at him, tears trembling at the corners.  “You would die in the well,” she said, fear cracking her voice.

It shook Cullen as the realization hit him, “You’re not afraid that you’ll be killed, you’re afraid I’ll die because of it?”

She nodded, the tears spilling out to fall over her cheeks.  Cullen sat his bucket down, and put an arm around Sha to pull her close.  She stiffened a moment, before leaning her head forward to rest on his chest piece.

“Are the templars so terrible that you have to be so afraid of us,” he asked softly.

Silent sobs wracked Sha’s body, choking her throat with emotion.  “I don’t want you to die in a well,” she managed.  

Cullen sighed, rubbing his hand in soothing circles across her back.  He really wished he was out of his armor.  It would be so much more comforting to have her pressed against his chest without the plate between them.  “I’m not going to die in a well,” he said softly.

“I know,” she choked out.  “I know it’s irrational to think so, and that it’s irrational to be so afraid when the templars here have never lain a hand on me,” she took a shuddering breath.  “Knowing that I’m being irrational doesn’t help me stop it, though.”

He cupped her cheek in his palm, guiding her face up so she would meet his eyes.  “Don’t worry, Sha.  I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”  She gave a half hearted smile and wiped at her tears, nodding.  “I promise you,” Cullen said fiercely, his heart thudding in his chest.  He leaned his head down, gently pressing a kiss to her forehead and breathing in the scent of her.  Raspberries.  Always, she smelled like raspberries.  He wondered how she managed that.

Cullen coughed, releasing Sha and stepping back to nervously rub his neck.  “We should, uh, we should keep going.  We’re almost there.”  Sha nodded at him, rubbing her sleeve across her face.

As they topped the crest of a small hill a few minutes later, Sha stopped, staring at the landscape before her.

“Wow,” she breathed out softly, eyes wide as they took in the lush green grass, edged by dark evergreens.  Sha’s gaze traveled over the rippling waves of grass, following the line of the landscape as it gently curved to a narrow, sandy shore where the waters of Lake Calenhad lapped soothingly.  

“Do you like it,” Cullen asked uncertainly.

Smiling brilliantly, Sha turned to him, her eyes sparkling.  “I love it.”

Relief flooded the templar.  “Good.  Now you just need to decide where and how big you would like your garden.”

“Are you sure you want to share this with me,” she asked uncertainly, turning to face him.  “I know you said this was your favorite place on the whole island, and I can definitely see why.”  Sha looked around the glade longingly.  “You don’t think a garden will ruin it?”

“Of course not,” Cullen scoffed.  “I think it’ll be nice.”

Sha smiled, setting the satchel down and putting her hands on her hips.  She surveyed the glade, breathing in the sweet scents of lush grass and new sap heavy growth.  “How about over there, by the trees,” she asked hesitantly, pointing to a spot by a large rock next to the tree line.

Cullen nodded.  “Sounds good to me.  We’ll need to pull the grass out, then till the ground.  Why don’t you go decide how big you’d like it to be and I’ll join you in a moment to start on the grass?”

Sha smiled, nodding at him, and skipped her way over toward the spot she had picked out.  Walking carefully, she measured out a few paces from the rock, eyeing the size of the plot between her and the rock.

“Cullen, I – Cullen!”  Sha gaped at the templar as he worked the buckles of the plate skirt of his templar uniform.  His chestplate and pauldrons were already off, resting on the ground.

“What is it?  What’s wrong,” Cullen snapped his head up, looking around.

Sha’s eyes were wide as she looked at him in the simple linen shirt he wore beneath his armor.  He looked down, color rising in his cheeks as he caught her gaze.  

Shrugging, he managed a lop sided grin.  “I figured it would get pretty uncomfortable, gardening in armor.”

Laughter bubbled up Shattered’s throat.  “Yes, I suppose it would,” she grinned.  “Let’s get to it then, shall we?”

Cullen smiled back at her, nodding.

 

First Enchanter Irving looked up at the knocking on his door.  “Greagoir!  Come in, come in.”  Irving leaned back in his chair, smiling at the Knight-Commander as he entered, shutting the door behind him before dropping into a chair next to the First Enchanter’s desk.  

“Did we do the right thing,” Greagoir asked, sounding old beyond his years.  

Irving sighed, opening a desk drawer and pulling out two tumblers and a bottle of scotch.  He poured them each a generous splash, passing one of the glasses to Greagoir before answering.  There was no need to ask who the Knight-Commander was referring to; the two men had been friends long enough Irving thought for sure by now they could read each other’s minds.  “We’ve given her the only chance we can.  Beyond this, we can only hope she finds a way to stand on her own.”

Greagoir savored the slow burn as the scotch warmed his belly.  “I just wonder if we’ve made the right choice, pushing them together like this.”  He gazed into his tumbler, swirling the dark brown liquid.

“I see,” Irving looked at his friend with sympathy.  “You’re afraid they will turn out like your relationship with Wynne.”

Greagoir took a deep breath, running his hand over his face.  “Yes,” he said quietly.  “I don’t want them to know the pain of having a child and never being able to ask after its fate.”

Irving clapped his friend on the back, splashing more scotch into his tumbler.  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he said.  “She will stand on her own, eventually.  But first, she’ll lean on him,” he smiled.  “It will all work out.”

Greagoir looked at him and sighed.  “I hope so.  May she forgive us all.”

 

Cullen stood up, dusting off his hands on the seat of his pants.  “There, almost ready to start planting the seeds.”  He smiled, surveying their handiwork.  Between the two of them, it hadn’t taken long to pull the grass from the area Sha had picked out.  Afterward, they had loosened the soil using the hand cultivator Cullen had carried in the bucket, and then dug rows with a trowel.  Cullen nodded in satisfaction.  

He turned to Sha, picking up the bucket.  “I’ll head down to the shore and get us some water.  We’ll let it soak into the soil before planting the seeds,” he smiled.  “It’ll give us a chance to eat our lunch while we wait.”

Sha nodded, watching Cullen stride away.  She sighed, relaxing against the warm rock behind her.  The past few hours had been torture.  Feeling the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the dirt in her hands, and all the while being able to smell Cullen.  The more he worked, the more his smell had permeated the air.  Musk and metal, warm flesh and the distinct tang that screamed male.  

Shattered took a deep, calming breath, rubbing at her cheeks.  She kept having to remind herself that he was a templar.  Looking across the glade, she smiled, wondering how she was going to reign in her wild imagination and stop the inappropriate thoughts that crossed her mind every time she saw Cullen’s muscles ripple under his shirt.

“Sha!”  She started at the sound of his voice, jumping at the panic she heard there.

“Shattered!  I need you!”  

She started running, legs pumping as she sprinted in the direction his voice came from, fear dumping adrenaline through her.  

Cullen came into sight, kneeling at the edge of the water, a dark form lain out next to him.  He looked up, pleading in his eyes.  

“Please, help him!  Heal him.”

Sha swallowed, fear and panic making her tremble.  She dropped to her knees next to the man, taking note of the purple tunic that marked him as a templar.  Her eyes widened as she saw the wounds crossing his chest and shoulders, his breath shallow and ragged.

“I don’t know if I can save him, Cullen,” she raised her gaze to look at the templar, panic shaking her voice.

Cullen nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.  “Do what you can,” he said, standing up, “I’ll run back to the tower and get more help.”

“No please, don’t leave me alone,” she cried out, reaching to grab Cullen’s arm.  

He looked down at her, gently squeezing her hand before removing it.  “I have to,” he said softly.  “He needs help.  I’ll be fast, I promise.”

A sob caught in Sha’s throat as Cullen turned, breaking into a swift run to get help from the tower.  Taking a deep breath to center herself, she reached out, sinking her magic into the templar before her.  

Her brow furrowed as she glanced over his body.  The wounds he suffered from were great, but there was something more.  Something in his blood was poisoning him, corrupting him from the inside; she could feel it every time her magic touched him.  

Shattered doubled her efforts, pushing her healing magic to pull the man back together.  

A strong hand with an iron grip clamped around her wrist, breaking her concentration and making her gasp.

“You must…must stop…them..,” the templar gasped out, his eyes boring into hers.  

Startled, Sha stared at him, her mouth agape.  “Stop who,” she finally managed to force through her numb brain.

“Stop…them…before a…blight..,” he gasped out, his breath hacking and irregular.  He sucked in air once, twice more, and then went still.

Shattered blinked at him.  “No!  No, no, no, no, no,” she cried out, tears falling from her eyes.  She pulled her magic to her, sinking it desperately into the body before her.

He didn’t respond; the Templar had died in front of her.

Shattered curled up on the beach, her knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them as the tears fell.  Her magic raged around her in waves, her power rippling and cascading around her as all of her nightmares flashed through her mind.  

She hadn’t been able to save the templar laying dead on the beach, and in her mind, she couldn’t save Cullen, either.

 

 


	4. Raspberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some budding feelings can cause self recrimination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the original author of the _A Shattered Amell_ series. This piece was originally posted on deviantArt on Nov 3, 2011.

# Raspberries

 

            Greagoir strolled across the apprentice’s practice room, coming to a halt next to Irving.

            “She seems to be doing well, considering,” Greagoir remarked, jerking his chin in Sha’s direction.

            Irving nodded, his eyes never leaving the lithe young mage as she swirled magic energy between her hands, mouth set in a determined line.

            “I had thought she would have a set back after that templar business.”  Irving crossed his arms, smiling in satisfaction as Sha produced a force field around herself.  “It seems quite the opposite.  She has been so focused, so determined in her studies, it’s as if she doesn’t even notice the templars.”  The instructor working with Sha launched a fireball at her.  The force field held.

            “They still haven’t found the creature that attacked Ser Douglas,” Greagoir said gravely.

            Irving sighed.  “And what of the others who were sent with him to bring back Anders?”

            Shaking his head, the Knight-Commander replied.  “Nothing.  I’ve sent scouts to the north, but haven’t heard back from them yet.  The last report I received indicated they were headed toward West Hills.”

            A look of concern crossed Irving’s face.  “You don’t think..?”

            Greagoir shook his head.  “No,” he said, “Ser Douglas was suffering from more than his wounds.  Some sort of corruption.  But it was not from magic or a demon.”

            “What of her,” Irving asked, nodding toward Sha.

            “I’ve had Cullen resume some of his templar duties.”

            Irving raised his eyebrows, turning to the Knight-Commander.  “So soon?”

            Greagoir gestured to Shattered as she began casting another spell.  “She’s been doing remarkably better.  I couldn’t continue keeping him off the roster forever.”  He shook his head at the First Enchanter.  “Don’t give me that look.  He’ll still be around.  Just not as much.  Next month, he’ll be around less.  She won’t even notice.”

            Irving’s brow furrowed.  “I’m certain you will do as you feel best.”

            Sighing, Greagoir looked away.  “Then why do I feel as though the ground will open up and swallow me when you say that?”

            The two turned, hearing Enchanter Leorah call to Shattered.  “That’s enough for today.  You’ve done well,” the elven mage clapped her pupil on the back approvingly.  “You’re free to spend the rest of the day in the library, if you wish.”

            Sha smiled, nodding and wiping the sweat from her brow.  “Thank you, Enchanter Leorah,” she replied, making her way to the door.

            Irving put his hand on the Knight-Commander’s shoulder, turning his friend to force him into meeting his eyes.  “What’s done is done,” Irving said.  “She’ll be fine.   Come, let’s go have a drink.”

            

            Shattered made her way to the library.  She had to get stronger.  She couldn’t let that happen to Cullen.  Whatever that had been, that killed the templar on the beach.  If only she had been stronger…

            Sha opened the Spirit Healer manual in front of her, grim determination on her face.  She _would_ get stronger.

            Cullen fidgeted in the library doorway.  The supper hour had come and gone with no sign of Shattered.  He figured he would find her here, pouring over her books.  Sighing, he looked down at the basket in his hand.  It seemed so silly, now.  When he’d been escorting apprentices about the island on their hunt for herbs, the raspberry bushes had called to him, pulling at his senses, reminding him how Shattered smelled every time he got close.

            “No turning back,” Cullen muttered to himself, squaring his shoulders and striding through the library toward the lone figure hunched over in the corner. 

            “Shattered,” he said softly, reaching her side.  

            She jumped, rubbing at her eyes and offering a smile.  “Cullen,” she said, yawning.  “Oh my, I’m sorry!  I must’ve been here longer than I realized.”  Sha looked at him sheepishly.

            Cullen marveled at the change in her.  Only a few short months ago, Sha would’ve curled into a trembling ball at having a templar alone in the same room with her.  Sitting the basket on the table, he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

            “I, uh,” he coughed.  “I was outside earlier.  With some of the other apprentices.  I, umm, I saw this raspberry bush and it made me think of you.”  Cullen stopped, grimacing as he mentally kicked himself.

            Sha gingerly lifted the edge of the napkin covering the contents of the basket.  Raspberries.  Ripe, red, juicy raspberries.  Squealing in delight, Sha popped one into her mouth, giggling and making rapturous faces as the sweet taste of the fruit hit her tongue.

            Relief flooded Cullen, his body relaxing as he watched her.  A wistful thought hoped he could make her look so joyous again.

            “You like it,” he asked tentatively. 

            Sha nodded, another raspberry already in her mouth, staining her lips a bright red.  Cullen licked his lips, focusing his eyes away from her mouth.  Maker help him, his blood was boiling in his veins.

            “I know,” Shattered cried, a grin spreading across her face.  “Your birthday is coming up soon.  I could make a cake for you.  With the raspberries.”

Cullen stared at her unbelievingly.  “I can’t believe you remembered.”

Sha looked away, blushing.  “Well, you’re special to me, Cullen.  Of course I remembered.”  She smiled up at him.  “First thing tomorrow, I’ll check the kitchen to make sure it has everything I’ll need.”  Sha nodded decisively.

            Nodding dumbly, Cullen watched Sha gather her things together.  Still in a haze, he escorted the mage back to the apprentice quarters.  Sha stopped in the doorway.

            “Umm,” she shuffled her feet.  “This is my stop,” she smiled apologetically over her shoulder.  

            Cullen nodded, the wheels in his head turning slowly.  Shattered stepped forward, away from him.

            “Wait,” Cullen finally unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth.  “I just…could you tell me something?”

            Shattered smiled, nodding her head.  “Of course, Cullen.  What would you like to know?”

            “How do you do it?”

            Raising her eyebrows quizzically, Sha looked at him.  Cullen ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

            “How do you manage to always smell of raspberries,” he tried again.

            Laughter filled the hallway.  Jerking her head into the apprentice quarters.  “I’ll show you,” she turned and walked quickly in the direction of her bunk.

            Cullen scowled.  Looking both directions in the hallway, he shook his head.  “This is so inappropriate,” he muttered to himself, glaring into the room.  Rubbing a hand over his face, Cullen sighed, then took a step across the threshold.  Quickly, he strode forward, spotting Sha kneeling in front of a chest at the foot of her bunk.

            Hearing him approach, Sha grinned up at Cullen, dropping a thick volume onto the trunk of her personal effects.  She opened the tome, flipping through.  Every few pages, Cullen noticed leaves pressed between the pages.  

            “What is that,” he asked in awe, dropping to his knee next to her.

            Blushing, Sha answered, “Whenever there are left over leaves from Herbology, I press them in here to preserve them.”  She flipped to the back of the book.  “From here back, are raspberry leaves.”  She looked away.  “I have Neria bring them to me whenever she has a chance.  I crush them once they’re dry, and mix them with oil.”

            Cullen stared at her. “You make your own perfume with it?”

            Shrugging, Sha looked at him.  “I guess you could say that.”  She bit her lip, looking embarrassed.  “I just like the way it smells.”

            “I like the way you smell,” Cullen said, his mouth running away before his mind caught up.  

            Smiling softly, Sha leaned into him.  She pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek before whispering into his ear.  “Thank you.”

            Cullen froze, blushing furiously.  His skin tingled, her warm breath tickling across his skin, a burning brand on his cheek where Sha’s lips had touched him.

            He swallowed, before replying, his voice rough as he spoke, “You’re welcome.”  He turned to meet her violet gaze, desire flaring through his body.

            Maker help him.

            The giggle of a group of apprentices entering the quarters jerked Cullen to his feet.  

            “I…You…I…Good day,” Cullen stuttered, escaping into the hallway.

            Jowan strolled over, leaning against Sha’s bunk.  “Somebody likes you,” he said, nodding toward the door.

            Shattered swatted at Jowan playfully, “Oh get out,” she cried, turning away and hoping he hadn’t noticed the heat rising in her face.

            

            Cullen closed the door to his quarters in the templar wing of the tower.  He rest his forehead against the cold stone of the wall, slowly clunking his gauntleted hand against the stone.

            “Why her?  Why a mage,” he leaned back, asking as he looked heavenward.  Moving over to his bed, Cullen sat and leaned forward.  Elbows on his knees, Cullen buried his face in his hands.  

            “Why me,” he whispered.


	5. The Docks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A near miss. Don't read if you have an aversion to violence.

# The Docks

 

            Neria groaned, slouching down on a stool next to the kitchen counter and propping her head up on her hand.  

            “Why did you drag me down here again,” she complained, watching Shattered as the lissome mage poked about the cupboards. 

            Shattered brushed her lavender hair back from her face, smiling at her bored, elven friend.  

            “It’s for a birthday cake,” she said, making a check next to a few of the ingredients on her list.  She pursed her lips, eyes running over the canisters in front of her.

            Neria perked up.  “Birthday?  Whose?  I know it’s not mine.”  A frown crossed her exotic features.  “Wait; is this about those raspberries you won’t share with me?”

            Sha bowed her head forward, letting her hair fall across her face to hide the blush she could feel rising.

            “Hmm,” Neria murmured, eyes narrowed on Sha.  “I know it’s not Jowan.  He’s been going on about how he’s met someone,” she rolled her eyes.  “It couldn’t be,” the bored look vanished, Neria jerked upright on her stool.  “a templar?”

            “Oh my god,” Shattered darted to the Elf’s side, clinging to her slender arm.  “Please, please, please!  You can’t tell anyone,” anxiety filled her violet eyes as Sha pleaded with her friend.  

            Neria relaxed against the counter, smugness oozing from her as she smirked.  “Well,” she drawled out, “I suppose I could keep it to myself.  If,” she held up a finger, “if you save me a piece of this raspberry cake you’re going to be making for him.”  She smiled.

            “Sugar!”

            “Well,” Neria sniffed.  “I didn’t think it was asking so much as to cause you to use such strong curse words.”

            Sha clutched her friend around the shoulders, shaking with laughter.  

            “Oh no, I accept your terms,” she said, wiping at her eyes.  “I meant that there isn’t enough sugar.”

            Neria shrugged.  “If you ask Greagoir, he might give you special permission to cross the lake to get some.”

            Sha swallowed nervously, her laughter gone.  “I…I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.  

            Patting her soothingly, Neria raised an eyebrow at her friend.  “How much does this birthday cake mean to you?”

            Sha slumped down against the countertop, groaning, her head hidden on her arms.

            With a shake of her head, Neria patted her friend’s shoulder comfortingly.

            

            Ten minutes of pep talk later found Sha pacing in front of the Knight-Commander’s open door, going over what she would say once she found the nerve to actually ask for the favor.

            “The kitchen is out of sugar and I need some for an experiment in confection production,” Sha rung her hands together.  “No that won’t work.”  She shook her head and started again.  “Knight-Commander, there is no sugar and it is an imperative ingredient in a special recipe.”  She groaned.  “What am I going to do,” she asked the empty hallway, slumping down against the wall, hands cradling her face.

            “Well, you could try a simple ‘May I go fetch some sugar’.  You never know how effective it will be unless you try,” the deep voice of the Knight-Commander rumbled through the hall as he appeared in the doorway to his office, an amused smile on his face.

            “I…I…,” Sha gaped at Greagoir as he stood before her, his arms crossed easily across his chest.  She blinked in surprise.  His armor was missing.  The Knight-Commander stood before her in the easily recognizable purple tunic of a templar, sword of mercy emblazoned across his chest.  

            Following her gaze, a chuckle escaped the man.  “What,” he asked, a twinkle in his eye, “did you think the armor never came off?”

            Shattered blushed, scrambling to her feet.  Ringing her hands together, she peered hesitantly into Greagoir’s warm smile.  He raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for her to continue.  Sha squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves.

            Her voice shaking, Sha voiced her question, eyes still tightly shut.  

            “May I travel to town to get sugar?  We are almost out and I…I need some.”  She opened her eyes, looking questioningly at the man before her.

            Greagoir tapped a finger on his chin.

            “May I ask what you need this sugar for,” he asked softly.

            “I wanted to make a cake for my friend’s birthday,” Sha answered quietly, eyes fixed on Greagoir’s shoes.  She kicked herself mentally.  The Knight-Commander had always been kind to her, had looked out for her.  She even remembered a Christmas gift of a necklace that she suspected was from him.

            Rough fingers reached out, gently cupping her chin.  Sha jumped, reacting involuntarily to the unexpected touch.  Hesitantly, she raised her eyes to meet the steely gaze of the templar before her.

            “You care for him a great deal, then?”

            Biting her lip, Sha nodded.

            Greagoir sighed, releasing his hold on her chin and running his hand distractedly through his hair.  Pity coursed through Sha as she watched him frown, the gray in his hair and the worry lines on his face standing out in the torchlight.  Turning back to the mage in front of him, Greagoir offered a smile, but to Shattered, he only looked tired.

            He must be very lonely, she thought, a pang of regret passing through her that she had been so frightened of the uniform that she never noticed the person behind it was just a man.

            Greagoir reached out, patting her head, the way a father might pat his child.  Tears pricked the corner of Sha’s eyes.

            “Will you save me a slice?  It has been some time since I’ve had a piece of cake.”  She looked up, teary eyes finally seeing the warmth the Knight-Commander felt for her.  

            Sniffling, Shattered dove into Greagoir’s chest, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his broad chest.

            Greagoir froze, his heart thundering.  Carefully, he returned her embrace, arms folding around her delicate frame as he pressed a light kiss to the top of her head.  Shattered’s breath hitched, her quiet sniffling turning into gentle sobbing, tears running from her eyes to stain the Knight-Commander’s clothing.  

            “Shh, my dear.  It’s alright.”  He pressed another kiss to her hair, his hand soothingly rubbing circles on her narrow back.

            Wiping at her eyes, Shattered pulled away.

            “I’ll make you your very own birthday cake,” she promised emphatically.

            A deep rumbling laugh made its way out of the stoic man in front of her.

            A smile, a _real_ smile, spread across his face, easing the pain in Shattered’s heart. 

            “There is no need for that, my dear,” he said, still laughing.  “There would need to be enough candles on it to burn the tower down.  Can’t have that.”  He waved a hand at her to shoo her off.  “Go on then.  I will have an escort meet you within the hour to take you across to the village.”  Still smiling, Greagoir turned back to return to his office.  

            Sha peaked in the door and grinned, watching a moment as the man inside the armor shuffled papers across his desk with a happy smile on his face.

            Setting off down the hallway, Sha whistled a little tune, her step light and springy.

            

            “Miss Amell,” the deep melodious voice came from directly behind her, startling Shattered into whirling about.  She stepped backwards and bumped into her footlocker, nearly tumbling to the floor.  Her eyes widened at the templar standing before her chuckling.

            “Cullen,” she squeaked, her tiny fist pounding ineffectually against the plate protecting his chest.  “Don’t you ever do that again,” Sha cried out, the furious words not matching the smile spread across her face.  

            “All right, all right,” he laughed, holding up his hands to ward off her mock fury.  She could hear the smile in his voice even though she couldn’t see it through his helm.  Cullen rolled his shoulders, loosening them under the heavy plate.  

            “The Knight-Commander said you have an errand to run and I am to escort you across the lake,” he said, his tone questioning.

            Eyes narrowing sharply, Sha studied the man before her.  

            “He didn’t tell you what the errand was for, did he?”

            “No,” Cullen shook his head.  “Something about kitchen supplies, but that was it.  He also gave me a pouch of coins that he said should cover the cost.”  He drew forth a small sack, the tinkling of silver could be heard inside.

            Relief flooded Sha, while she had hoped that Greagoir would assign Cullen as her escort, she didn’t want him knowing that they were making a special trip for his cake.  She grinned up at him.

            “Lead the way, Ser Templar.”

            “After you, my lady,” he replied with an exaggerated bow.

            “If you insist,” she sniffed, doing a fair job of repressing her giggles.

            “Oh, I do insist,” Cullen’s eyes twinkled through the slit in his helm as he held his arm out, indicating that Shattered should lead the way.

            Shattered paused as they reached the tower doors.  She stood, looking out at the bright sun and, with a smile, stepped into the light.

            

            Cullen marveled at Sha as they crossed the lake, Kester rowing along and whistling a tune.  Even shaking from fear and excitement, the mage had clambered into the boat with a determined set to her jaw.  Eyes roving over her trembling form, Cullen shook his head.  Whatever they were being sent after, it certainly meant a lot to Sha to get it.  

            His gaze wandered, taking in the mage as she sat ram-rod straight, eyes locked on the dock looming in the distance.  His eyes fixating on an exposed patch of pale flesh, Cullen licked his lips.  She looked so soft, smooth and fragile.  Her narrow shoulders were squared in determination, hands clasped in her lap tightly.  Sha glanced around, her violet eyes catching the templar staring at her.  

            Cullen coughed, quickly glancing away.  A small smile crept across his lips when he saw the flush climbing Sha’s cheeks.  

            “So,” Cullen remarked nonchalantly as they made their way toward the Spoiled Princess, “are you going to let me in on what we’re picking up here?”

            Sha bit her lip, trying to hide the slight grin creeping across her face.  She shook her head, drawing a sigh from Cullen.

            “Didn’t think so,” he muttered, opening the door to the Inn with a sigh.  “After you,” he said, bowing slightly at his waist and gesturing Sha in before him.

            Cullen surveyed the common room of the Inn, looking over the various drunks and vagrants sprawled at the tables.  He sniffed.  It wasn’t even late enough for the evening meal and some of the patrons at the Inn were already half crocked.  Touching Sha on the elbow, he passed her the coin pouch the Knight-Commander had given him, indicating that he would be near the door while she did her business with the merchant.

            Folding his hands lightly together, the templar leaned against the wall, eyeing the patrons once more.  His gaze came to rest on a trio of thugs huddled together in the far corner.  Just looking at them raised the hairs on the back of his neck, ill intent oozing from their pores along with the stench of weeks without a bath.  Cullen grimaced, thankful that his helm hid the look of disgust he couldn’t keep from his face.

            A giggle from the bar drew his eye, and Cullen grinned as he watched Shattered smile happily as she received a package from the merchant there.  The innkeeper gave her a friendly smile and a wave, sending her back to Cullen clutching the brown paper package to her chest.

            “Done already,” he asked, standing up from his spot on the wall.

            Shattered nodded, a grin splitting her face as she giggled at him.  Cullen shook his head, smiling behind his helm while he held the door.

            “Now will you tell me what’s in the bag,” Cullen wheedled as they walked back toward the dock, Kester still waiting to take them back across to the tower.

            Giggling, Sha shook her head.  “Not until after it’s been put to use.”  She grinned up at him, skipping along beside the long legged templar.

            Shoulders slumping in defeat, Cullen sighed loudly, eliciting another round of giggles from the diminutive mage beside him.

            “Oh no,” distress colored Shattered’s voice as they reached the boat.  Cullen looked at her sharply.  “I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner, but the innkeeper gave me too much change,” she smiled apologetically.  Passing the package to the templar, Sha turned toward the Spoiled Princess.  “I’ll be right back.”  She sprinted off, her apprentice robe fluttering around her slim legs.

            “She’s a nice one, that.”

            Cullen jumped, startled, having forgotten Kester’s presence.  The man nodded in the direction of the Inn.

            “Not many people would bother returning extra change.  Most would just pocket it,” he nodded approvingly.  “No matter that she’s a mage, she’s good people.”

            “Yes,” Cullen answered softly, a trace of wonder finding its way into his voice.  “She is a good person.”

            

            Sha smiled as she returned the merchant’s extra change and turned toward the door.  She felt good, happy.  She pushed open the door and took a step outside, her gaze falling on the tower she was to return to.  A tingle of affection flitted through her.  The tower looked so beautiful from here, rising majestically out of the center of the lake, a pillar piercing the sky.

            She didn’t notice the three shadows that had followed her out of the Inn.  Not until a heavy hand clamped down onto her shoulder.

            Sha jumped with a squeak, trying to turn and see who had grabbed her from behind.

            “Oy, there be none ‘o that, missy,” a voice snickered in her ear as strong hands grabbed her arms.

            “What’cha think, Bill?  We got us one of them renegade mages?”

            “Well now,” the first voice said again, “she do look like an apo-state to me.”

            Fear and panic froze Shattered’s insides.  

            “P-pl-please,” came her whispering stutter, “I have p-permission.”

            “P-p-bullshit,” the ragged voice mocked her, the man behind her pressing himself against her backside, sending rolls of nausea through Sha as she felt his arousal press against her.  Tears pricked her eyes.

            The men laughed at her obvious discomfort, roughly dragging her around the side of the Inn.  She struggled weakly; surprised to find the men holding her weren’t templars.

            “No, please,” she cried out, pulling backwards in their grip, “Why?  You don’t have to do this.”  Sha sobbed.  

            A cruel laugh met her ears as one of the group kicked her in the back of the knees, sending her sprawling face first into the dirt.

            “Ah course we don’t have ‘ta,” the one called Bill answered her.  He grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking it backward as he leaned down behind her.  “We do it cuz we can.”  His hot breath felt foul as it brushed over her skin, making Sha shudder with revulsion.  “See,” the man continued, “if you use them magics against us, that would make you an apo-state.  There’ll be a purty little brand on your head next we sees ya.”  She felt him smile, his lips brushing against her skin.  “An if’n you don’t, we’ll get what we want.”  His hand reached around to her front, grasping her breast through her robes and pinching down hard on Sha’s nipple.

            Shattered sobbed, and Bill laughed, grinding against her again from behind.

            “No, no, no,” she wailed, the tight control she’d gotten over her magic fracturing, trickles of energy shooting out unchecked.

            “Ay,” Bill called to the other men.  “Wanna stick something in there to shut her up?”

            Tears ran down Sha’s face as one of them moved in front of her, hands working to untie the leather lacing his breeches shut.  She looked up, nausea threatening to make her vomit as she saw the wicked smile on his face.

            “Gladly,” the man said, pulling out his half erect member.

            Bill pulled her hair back, forcing her head toward the phallus being thrust in her face.  Shattered clenched her mouth shut, tears running down her face.  She could feel Bill pulling at her robes, hitching them up toward her hips.  

            Despair filled her.

            

            Cullen jumped to his feet, rocking Kester’s small boat.  

            “Hey there, lad,” the old man called.  “Watch yourself.”

            “Something’s wrong,” Cullen muttered, magic tingling his senses.  He thrust the brown paper package into Kester’s hands and jumped to the dock, sprinting toward the Inn, panic pumping through his veins.

            

            “I said open your mouth,” growled the man in front of her, raising his hand to strike her again.  Shattered sobbed, keeping her mouth clenched firmly shut.  Bill snickered at the muffled cry she let out when the fist connected with her face.

            “Maybe she like’s a bit ‘a pain,” he laughed, his hand ripping at her panties, tearing them in his eagerness.

            “What about that templar she was with,” the third man asked nervously.

            “’E ain’t here now, is ‘e,” Bill shot over his shoulder.  “If’n you’re so damn worried about him, keep an eye out and wait for leftovers,” Bill snickered, fumbling with the lacing on his pants.

            The “Sonsabitches” that drifted back as the third man turned to look around the corner of the Inn would be the last thing anyone heard him say.

            Cullen didn’t ask any questions when he came around the corner, and he came swinging the six foot great sword that he normally only drew during practice.

            Smooth as butter, the sword slid through muscle, tendon and bone, cleaving through the man’s shoulder and traveling in a downward arch through his chest before popping out the other side just under his ribs.  An angry cry filled the air as the templar took in the scene before him, the path of the sword swinging back as Cullen charged forward, slicing through the neck of the man in front of her.

            Bill was the only one that had time to react.  With a snarl, he pushed backward, pulling Shattered’s hair to bring her with him, putting her between himself and the raging templar.  He pulled a knife and pressed its tip to Sha’s throat, glaring at Cullen over her shoulder.

            Rage filled Cullen as he saw Sha’s bruised and bloodied face.  He grit his teeth, looking over her shoulder at the garbage holding her.  It was one of the men from the back table at the Inn.  The templar seethed that a man such as this could prey upon women, upon mages.  Upon Shattered, _his_ mage.  

            “I will kill you,” Cullen grit out, murderous intent in his voice and in his eyes.

            Bill laughed.  “And wat, cut through your precious mage to do so?”  He spat.  “Back down, whelp, or I’ll kill her myself.”  To emphasize his words, Bill pressed the tip against her skin, drawing a small bead of blood that slid down her pale throat.  

            With a deep breath, Cullen centered himself.  He looked sadly into Sha’s tear stained and bloody face.  

            “Do you trust me,” he asked softly.

            A whine escaped the mages throat, but she gave a slight nod before closing her eyes, tears glistening like diamonds in her dark lashes.

            Maker help me, Cullen thought, before swinging his great sword around into a pommel strike that caught Bill in the side of his head.

            The stunned man fell backward, knife dropped from his grasp, and Shattered fell forward, away from him.

            Cullen stalked forward, raising his upended sword so the point hovered over Bill’s throat as the man’s head slowly cleared.  

            “Maker have mercy on you, for I will not,” Cullen intoned grimly.  Bill’s eyes widened and Cullen’s sword came down with a sickening crunch as it broke through and sank into the ground.

            Quickly, the templar sheathed his blade, kneeling at Shattered’s side.  She was quivering, blood and tears covering her face, clothing ripped.  Cullen clenched his jaw, wishing he hadn’t ended their lives so quickly after what they had done.  They deserved to suffer as they had made others suffer. 

            Carefully, he scooped Sha up in his arms, her slight form weighing barely more than a whisper.  She pressed her face against his chest plate, a fresh bout of crying wracking her body.  Cullen cradled her to him as he rushed to the dock.

            “Shh,” he soothed.  “I’m here.  I’m taking you home now.”

            “Oh, Cullen,” Sha whispered hysterically, “I’m so scared.”

            “It’s okay now,” he said softly.  “It’s over.  I’m here now.”  He tightened his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as a tear of his own escaped the corner of his eye.

            “I’ve got you.”

 

 


	6. And Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, something sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on deviantArt on November 29, 2011. I am the original author.

           Knight-Commander Greagoir paced anxiously back and forth, hands clasped tightly behind his back.  His eyes darted from the infirmary door to the young templar at the end of the hall with his head bowed, whispering prayers to the Maker and Andraste.  Frowning, Greagoir ran his fingers through his graying hair, worry lines creasing his face.

            When Irving slowly pushed open the door, he found himself pinned by two pairs of eyes, concern and anguish shining clear in each.

            “Calm,” he said softly, raising his hands passively. 

            Greagoir swallowed, his voice gruff as he asked the question on both his and Cullen’s minds.

            “Is-Is she okay?”

            With a tired smile, Irving softly closed the door. 

            “We’ve healed the worst of the damage,” he said.  “There will be some scarring,” he held up his hands as his audience tensed grimly.  “It’s around her eye.  We think one of her attackers had some sort of gauntlet on,” the aged mage ran his fingers over his shaggy beard.  “We’ve done all we can for her, physically.”

            The Knight-Commander breathed a sigh of relief.  “I’m surprised,” he said.  “She didn’t defend herself with magic.”

            Shrugging, Irving turned away.  “Perhaps she didn’t believe she was able to.”  He moved toward the end of the hall.  “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I am quite tired now and in need of a rest.”  He nodded politely to Greagoir.

            “Can we-,” the Knight-Commander bit his lip.  “Can we see her,” he asked cautiously.

            Irving nodded his assent.  “Just be careful not to disturb her.”

            As quietly as possible in full plate, the pair of templars crept into the infirmary to stand at the side of Shattered’s bed.  His mouth quivering, Greagoir reached out with a hesitant hand.  It trembled over the slight mage laying before them for a moment before dropping to his side, defeat slouching his shoulders.

            “I am so sorry, Knight-Commander,” Cullen whispered, anguish twisting his face.  “This is all my fault!  I should’ve been watching her more closely.”

            Greagoir turned his back on the younger man, hiding the few tears escaping his pained eyes.

            “No, Cullen.  You mustn’t blame yourself,” he said quietly.  He looked down at Sha’s face, still puffy and slightly bruised.  “Those vermin,” the Knight-Commander’s voice took on a hard edge, his fist clenched at his side, “had no business doing as they were.  It makes me sick to think how many innocent mages they have preyed upon.”  He surreptitiously eyed Cullen.  “You did the right thing, lad.  Those are the kinds of people we must protect the mages from.”

            Cullen still looked miserable, head hanging as he leaned against the footboard of Sha’s bed.  Sighing, Greagoir turned, dropping a heavy hand onto Cullen’s shoulder. 

            “Go,” authority rang clear in the Knight-Commander’s voice, this was no request, it was an order.  Cullen let his eyes raise, meeting the composed, steely gaze of his superior.  “Go and clean yourself up.  Their blood is still covering your armor,” eyes dropping quickly, Cullen cringed inwardly at the streak of dull red splashed over his breast plate.  “You have night rounds for the rest of the week.  If you wish to stand watch over this mage during the day,” Greagoir shrugged.  “then that is your business.”

            Cullen strode quickly to the door, hesitating when he reached it.  He looked back at Shattered’s small form buried under the infirmary’s blankets.

            “It’s okay,” the Knight-Commander assured him.  “I will stay with her until your return.”

            Nodding, Cullen quickly opened the door, fleeing to the templar quarters. 

           

            “How is she,” Carroll asked, catching him in the hallway.

            Cullen’s brow furrowed, he didn’t pause his ground eating pace as he strode through the halls, forcing the shorter man to trot to keep up.

            “They’ve healed the worst of it,” Cullen relayed, annoyed.  “The rest must heal naturally.”  He frowned.  “The First Enchanter said that physically, she would be fine.”

            “Well that’s good,” Carroll chirped, earning a hard glance from Cullen.  “What?  Neria was asking.  I thought I would pass it along,” he shrugged.

            Contrite over his attitude, a light blush colored Cullen’s cheeks.  Of course Shattered’s friends would’ve seen him run in, yelling for a healer and carrying her unconscious form in his arms.  He paused, patting Carroll lightly on the shoulder.

            “Thank you.  I’m sure they are anxious for news.”

            A lop sided smile crossed Carroll’s features.  “Happy to be of help,” he gave Cullen a merry little two fingered salute before moving off toward the library to spread the news.

            Cullen watched him go, shaking his head with a sigh.  Pushing open the door to his room, he started ripping armor off, his templar trappings flung haphazardly about the room as he removed them in favor of clean garments.

           

            Greagoir sighed wearily, sliding a chair over next to Sha’s bed.  Pulling his gauntlets off, he gently smoothed her hair back before placing a gentle kiss to her brow.  With a soft touch, the aged templar clasped Shattered’s hand between his before lowering himself to the chair.

 

            Cullen cleared his throat, making the Knight-Commander jump.  Greagoir wiped a hand over his face before turning a tired eye to his subordinate.  He stood, old joints creaking, and gruffly patted Cullen’s shoulder, nodding as he made his way through the door to return to his office.

            Cullen waited until the door clicked closed behind the Knight-Commander before rushing to Shattered’s side.  Pulling Sha’s hand to his lips, the young man bowed his head over the unconscious mage.  Tears spilled down Cullen’s cheeks and anguish filled his voice as his whispered apology endlessly repeated to the still form on the bed.

            “I am so sorry, Shattered.  So sorry.”

 

            Blinking in the darkness, Sha opened her eyes, panic momentarily paralyzing her as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings of the infirmary.

            Neria’s snore broke the silence, drawing a relieved sigh from Sha.  She wiggled, struggling with the press of blankets holding her down, drawing an involuntary groan as sore muscles cried out in protest. 

            “Huh, what?  I’m awake,” the elf slurred, jerking upright in the chair she had fallen asleep in.  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, adjusting herself into a more comfortable position.  Her eyes rounding as they settled on Sha, the elf gave a strangled cry, burying her face against Shattered’s chest. 

            Awkwardly patting her friend’s shoulders, Sha sighed.

            “It’s okay, Neria.  I’m all right,” she grimaced as her throbbing muscles’ objected to the girl’s slight weight.

            Slim shoulders shook as Neria sobbed into the covers. 

            “Neria?  That kind of hurts,” Sha’s voice was strained. 

            “Oh,” the elven girl squeaked, sitting up.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t realize-,” she broke off, biting her lip, hands rubbing vigorously at her cheeks.

            With a grunt, Sha slowly pulled herself upright to swing her legs off the side of the bed.  She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth as aching muscles screamed in objection, tendons groaning as they stretched to breaking over hard bone.

            “What do you think you’re doing,” Neria queried through a yawn a she rubbed the rest of her sleep from her eyes.

            Sha gave her a half smile as she tottered to her feet, bracing herself delicately against the bed. 

            “The kitchen.”

            “Oh,” Neria blinked.  “We had roast for dinner,” she said, stretching.  “I don’t think there’s any left, but there’s likely still some bread.”  The elf grimaced as she looked down at her rumpled robes.  She scratched at her backside as she walked toward the door.  “I’m going to bed,” she announced.

            Raising her eyebrows, Sha shuffled after her friend. 

            “Not going to hold my hand like I’m some invalid,” she asked, teasing.

            Neria frowned, shaking her head.  “You can’t get into too much trouble getting some bread from the kitchens,” she answered.  “Besides, I think your pet templar is the one that drew night watch this week.  I’m sure he’ll keep an eye on you.”  She pressed a quick kiss to Sha’s cheek before the stunned mage could get her mental gears to work up a retort. 

            Sha leaned against the wall, shaking her head as she watched Neria meander down the hall toward the apprentice quarters.  Pushing off the wall, Sha turned toward the kitchens, ignoring the brittle feeling that permeated her aching body.  Eyes on the floor in front of her, Sha forced one bare foot in front of the other, thankful that Neria hadn’t escorted her to the kitchen to see what she was really going to do there.

 

            Cullen clomped through the hall, his agitation telegraphing through the sharp clank of his armored feet with each step.  The normally slow and boring rounds were taking far too long, stretching Cullen’s patience to the breaking point.  He paused as he passed the kitchen, eyes drawn to the faint glow of a lamp shining through the crack under the door.  Hand reaching over his shoulder to grip the broadsword at his back, Cullen silently pushed open the door.

            “Sur-prise?”  Shattered ended on a squeak as she looked over flickering candles at the point of Cullen’s sword.  She swallowed, eyes wide as her gaze traveled down the flat of the blade, candle light flickering off of its mirror smooth surface.  Slowly, she blinked, her gaze finally meeting Cullen’s amber eyes.

            The templar sighed in relief, shoulders slouching and arm going limp until the point of his sword rested on the floor.  Tearing his helm off, Cullen dropped it and his sword to the floor with a clatter.  He would’ve crushed the mage to his chest right then, his arms wide, itching to feel her safe in them, when he noticed the cake she held.  It brought him up short, staring at Shattered, dumbfounded.

            In a haze, Cullen watched himself blow out the candles.  Shattered smiled at him, white teeth glittering in the lamplight.  She turned, placing the cake on the kitchen counter.  A hand reached out, his hand, Cullen realized.  The gauntlet was missing, and he guessed he must’ve taken it off, but couldn’t remember when.  A finger dipped into the white icing, so carefully spread with a pretty scalloped edge. 

            His eyes flicked over to Shattered’s mouth, still curved into a smile as he watched himself offer her the icing covered finger.

            Reaching up, Shattered wrapped her small fingers around Cullen’s rough hand.

            He jerked back to himself as her pink tongue darted out, warm velvet that tugged at his soul as it licked at his finger delicately.

            “Oh sweet Maker,” Cullen breathed out, his resolve crumbling as Shattered pulled back, smiling at him, a dab of missed icing at the corner of her mouth.

            Reaching out, Cullen cupped Shattered’s cheek with his palm.  The rough pad of his thumb gently brushing the sensitive skin just below her lips, Cullen’s touch left a trail of tingles prickling Sha’s flesh in his wake.  He leaned forward, his warm breath ghosting over Shattered’s skin.

            Cullen closed his eyes, shutting out the pale pink lines of scares and the fading bruises on Shattered’s face.

            “Please forgive me,” he whispered, and then captured her mouth with his.


	7. To Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good will mission gone wrong when Cullen and Sha get ambushed but an unexpected visitor saves the day and all things come together in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the original author of the _A Shattered Amell_ fan-series. This chapter was originally posted on deviantArt on Dec 10, 2011.

 

            “Is this…,” Shattered paused, licking her lips.  “Is this punishment for something?”

            “Oh, child,” First Enchanter Irving stood from behind his desk, coming around to squeeze Sha’s shoulders comfortingly.  “No, this is not a punishment.  You have been exemplary in your studies,” he smiled, reassuring her.  “I’m sending you to Redcliffe because I feel it is important for you to,” he paused, eyes raising to look, unfocused, over her head, “to interact with people outside of the tower.”

            A shudder ran through her petite frame.  “I think I’ve had enough… _interaction_ …with those outside the tower, thank you just the same,” Sha’s tone was blatantly acerbic, her hand brushing over the still pink line of fresh scars surrounding her eye.  

            Irving sighed, shaking his head.  “I meant for you to have a positive interaction.”  His voice dropped to a whisper, “The men that hurt you, can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

            Sha’s shoulders slumped, defeated.  “Must I go,” she whispered, eyes riveted on Irving’s chest.  “What of the midwife?”

            “Not good enough,” Irving shook his head.  “There are…complications with the pregnancy that are beyond her capabilities.”

            “Then why not send a real mage!  A harrowed mage,” Sha cried out, glaring petulantly.

            Pressing a soft kiss to Sha’s forehead, Irving answered, “You need this, child.  Trust me.  I’m confident that you’ll be able to handle whatever comes your way.”  He smiled.  “Go.  Pack a few of your things.  I will send a templar to escort you.”

            Irving watched Shattered shuffle out of his office with a heavy heart.

            “Are you sure this is wise,” Greagoir asked, leaning against the doorway.  

            Rubbing a hand over his face tiredly, Irving shook his head.  “We can only hope to replace the painful memory with one of joy.  The miracle of childbirth is often enough to give hope to the lost.”

            “I hope you are as right as you think you are,” Greagoir replied dryly, accepting a tumbler from the First Enchanter.  He stared for a moment into the golden brown liquid swirling inside before knocking back the shot Irving had poured him.  “For her sake, I hope you’re right.”

 

            Shattered hesitated before taking the hand Cullen offered to help her depart Kester’s boat.  The ferryman had been extremely polite picking them up, apologizing profusely for the horrible experience Sha had suffered on her last visit and expressing his pleasure that she seemed so well.  Shattered had sat silently as Kester rattled on, her face an expressionless mask with lips carved woodenly into a polite smile.  It unnerved Cullen, sending a chill across his flesh to see her looking like that.  He did his best to keep his eyes away from her creepy expression.

            As the pair passed the Spoiled Princess, Shattered paused.  Her violet eyes clouded over, pain and fear warring with each other for a moment across her face, her mind’s eye replaying the scene for her.  Three lecherous men exited the inn, grabbing hold of a slim young woman and forcing her around the corner.

            “Shattered,” Cullen spoke softly, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder.  “Are you all right?”

            Sha jumped, jerking around to look up at the templar.  He drew back, glad for the helm that hid how her reaction had hurt him.  She looked back over her shoulder at the Princess.  No men.  No mage.  Sha let out a slow breath, forcing a too bright smile.

            “I’m fine,” she said, and turned quickly away, pulling up the hood of her cloak despite the mild weather.  Shattered led the way through the small town to the main road they would take south to Redcliffe, Cullen trailing behind her sullen and confused.

            

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            When sunset loomed on the horizon, they were still a day’s travel from the town of Redcliffe.  

            Clearing his throat, Cullen realized they had gone nearly all day without speaking, Shattered trudging doggedly along while he followed in her wake.  

            “We should set camp for the night,” he said, trying to sound light.  Sha stopped, turning to him.  Her hood was still up, hiding her face in shadows, but it dipped in assent, so Cullen moved to the roadside, swinging their pack and his bed roll down from his shoulder.

            “Stupid…stubborn…ridiculous,” Cullen mumbled to himself as he stripped off the templar armor.  He glanced to where Shattered was setting out her bedroll and ran an exasperated hand through his hair.  “I’m getting firewood,” he announced and tromped off into the trees.  

            Sha watched him go, sighing when he was out of site and dropping her hood.  She rubbed at her cheeks, hoping her tear stains would be less visible in the dark and started rummaging through their pack to pick out dinner.  Her memories of the last time she had ventured across the lake had been playing havoc with her emotions all day, and she hadn’t wanted Cullen to know how much it still bothered her.  Keeping it bottled up may not have been the best solution, but she hadn’t wanted the templar to know how it had plagued on her mind after passing the Princess.  She sighed.  Now it seemed Cullen was angry with her.  Colossal failure.  

            

            “Shattered,” Cullen asked later, hesitantly, as she handed him a bowl of stewed meat and vegetables.  “Do you,” he licked his lips, stirring his food listlessly.   “Are you mad that I kissed you?”  His forehead crinkled, his voice anxious and uncertain as he looked up at her.

            Cullen hadn’t been expecting her to laugh.  Shattered covered her mouth with her hand and clutched her stomach, her giggles drifting lightly along the cool evening breeze.  Cullen blushed furiously, dropping his eyes to the bowl in his hands and feeling like a fool.

            “Oh no!  No, Cullen, please, it’s not like that,” Sha assured him, dropping to her knees beside him and wrapping her hands around his arm.  “Feeling your kiss,” Sha blushed, biting her lip.  “It was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever,” she blew out a breath, feeling the tug of heat in her hips, “the most incredible thing I could have imagined,” she finished softly, smiling up at him.

            The brushes next to them split open, spilling darkspawn onto their campsite, a scouting party of hideous beasts growling and roaring as they burst into the fire light.

            Shattered shrieked, scrambling around behind Cullen as he grabbed for his broadsword.  He grimaced, regretting having taken off his armor as he swung to block a Hurlock as it aimed a blow at his head.  Sparing a glance over his shoulder, Cullen’s hopes fell:  Shattered was two steps from turning into a gibbering, babbling mess.  There would be no help from her.  He jerked his arms, moving the sword to parry a second Hurlock while kicking the knee out of the first.  

            “Tsk.  Two archers,” Cullen grumbled, swinging his sword’s blade back through the neck of the Hurlock on its knees.  

            The templar never saw the Hurlock Alpha burst into the other side of the camp and charge toward his unprotected back.  

            Shattered gasped, scrambling to her feet and shouting to Cullen, but the remaining Hurlock was keeping him occupied.  The Alpha was going to cut him down right in front of her.  There was nothing she could do to stop it.

            “No,” Shattered shrieked, surging forward arm outstretched.  The Cone of Cold cast without her even thinking, instinct overriding fear as adrenalin flooded Sha’s system.  The Alpha froze mid swing at Cullen’s head.  Sha stood for a moment panting before it hit her.

            Corruption.

            Her magic could feel it from the Alpha, a crawling sensation in her skin, just like the templar that had died next to her on the shore by Lake Calenhad.  Shattered sucked a breath in.  _These_ were the creatures that had killed Ser Douglas.  

            Determination filled her.  They would _not_ kill another.  Shattered thrust a Stonefist at the frozen Alpha, shattering it and sending bits of icy darkspawn raining over Cullen.

            _Cullen_.

            Mouth set in a grim line, Sha raised a Force Field around the templar.  

            “Sha!  What…What are you doing,” he strained, unable to move or break free.  

            Fire blazed in the mages eyes as she cast a Crushing Prison around one of the archers, it’s body contorted in agony.

            “They will not have you,” she cried, ignoring Cullen’s pleas to be let free.  She needed to end this fast, Sha realized.  She was already gasping for breath.  The one remaining Hurlock was still banging away on the Force Field, forcing her to continually feed it energy to stay up.  

            The second Genlock Archer, seeing its companion writhing in pain, trained it’s arrow on the small woman in robes.  Shattered staged as its arrow hit home, piercing her shoulder.  She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out, tasting the coppery tang of blood filling her mouth.  Sha swung back, flinging her hand up, a Winter’s Grasp spiking up around her enemy.  

            Shattered wobbled, wishing she had her staff to help focus her magic or at least to lean on, but it was at the far side of the camp and there was no time.  Her vision began to blur, the arrow sticking from her shoulder was surely poisoned.  Wiping at her eyes to try to clear them, Sha ignored the throbbing pain and the wet feel of blood on her robe. 

            When she dropped her hands from her eyes, Sha found herself blinking at the Hurlock already upon her, mid swing.  She cried out, jumping back as the darkspawn’s blade swung mere inches in front of her nose.  It advanced, readying to swing again.  Sha closed her eyes, concentrating her dwindling mana to her fingers, stomping her foot as she cast Mind Blast.  The Hurlock wobbled there, dazed by the blast.  

            An arrow whizzed by, narrowly missing Shattered.  She cursed, looking to the archer that had unfrozen without her notice.  The Crushing Prison had done its work on the other; it lay in a crumpled, disgusting heap.  Shattered side stepped, the archer so intent on hitting her, he shot his own comrade in the back as Sha put the Hurlock between herself and the ranged opponent.  With a gurgle the hideous beast fell on its face, the arrow neatly lodged in the middle of its back.  

            Feeling drained, Shattered struggled to stay upright, panting as she glared at the Genlock.  It snarled and gnashed its teeth, uncertain of an easy kill, but unwilling to back away.  It drew an arrow, knocking it to the bowstring and drawing, sighting in on her.

            “Andraste guide my hand,” Shattered silently prayed, stooping to grab a sword once used by the dead Hurlock at her feet.  She hurled it, end over end, in a lazy arch toward the Genlock as the creature released its arrow.  A sickening thud filled the air as the arrow found its mark, piercing the mage right below the rib cage just as the sword embedded itself in the Genlock’s chest, spurting foul, black blood across the ground.

            Shattered looked down, hand curling around the shaft were it protruded from her flesh.  She was vaguely aware that the sound of screaming filled the air, finding some small sense of pride that it wasn’t her voice doing the screaming.  

            _Cullen._

            Slowly, the mage turned toward the Force Field.

            “Thank the Maker,” she whispered.  He was still safe, still in it.  She had protected him.  The Field dropped as she slowly sank to her knees.

            “Oh Maker,” Cullen cried, catching her by the shoulders as Shattered slipped to the side.  “Oh please, don’t take her from me!”  Warm tears dripped from his cheeks as he gently laid the mage down, hands shaking as he looked at the arrows, unsure what to do.

            “Why?  Why did you do it,” he cried grabbing her shoulders.  He sobbed as he looked at the blood soaking through Sha’s robes.  “I’m not worthy.”  Tears filled the young templar’s eyes as he rummaged through their pack looking for healing poultices and lyrium, the sharp edge of hysteria prickling his throat like a knife.

            With trembling hands, Cullen lifted Shattered’s head, pressing a small vial of lyrium to her lips.  The blue fluid trickled across her lips and down her chin, a mere sip making it into her mouth for the mage to swallow convulsively.  

            “She’ll need more than that, if you wish her to survive.”

            The deep, melodious voice startled the templar, spurring him to whirl, great sword in hand to point across the camp at an imposing figure standing just outside the firelight.  

            “Show yourself,” Cullen commanded, his voice cracking as he hovered over the unconscious mage.  

            With a sigh, arms uncrossed from a broad chest and the intruder stepped forward.  Firelight danced off of dark hair, pulled tightly back into a pony tail, glinting on a gold ear ring.  The man rolled his shoulders, drawing Cullen’s eye to the twin silverite handles protruding upward from his back.  A light leather armor robe swished silently as the man came closer, crouching next to Shattered.  

            Cullen blinked, lowering his sword.

            “We’ll need to remove the arrows,” he said, inspecting Sha.  He glanced around.  “Not bad,” the man praised.  “Four…no, five darkspawn.”  He nodded at Cullen approvingly.  “Taken by surprise without your armor.  Well done.”

            Blushing, Cullen looked down and shook his head.  “It wasn’t me.”  He nodded to Sha.  “It was her.”

            The man looked up in surprise from his examination of the arrow in Shattered’s stomach.  

            “I can only claim one kill,” Cullen shrugged sheepishly.

            “Hold her still, she may fight this,” the man said gruffly, his hand firmly gripping the arrow shaft.  Cullen set his mouth in a determined line.  Pressing calloused hands firmly on Sha’s shoulders, he nodded his readiness.

            With one swift jerk, the first arrow was out, contorting Sha’s unconscious form with pain.  Cullen bit his lip, anguish stabbing at him over causing Sha more pain.

            “Don’t lose your backbone on me now, lad,” the man said grimly.   “We’ve got one more to go.”

            Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, Cullen nodded.  With another jerk, the second arrow came free, fresh blood bubbling out of the wound.  Carefully cutting away the material of Sha’s robe, the man scratched at his beard thoughtfully.  He drew two vials from his pouch, moving to tip them between Shattered’s parted lips.

            “What,” Cullen suddenly found his voice.  “What is that?”

            Raising a dark eyebrow, the man held them up for inspection.  “A simple health restorative and a poison antidote,” he remarked dryly.

            Suspicion narrowed Cullen’s eyes.  “How do you know so much about what she needs?  Who are you, anyway?”

            The man eased the contents of the vials between the mage’s lips before thumbing over his shoulder in the direction of the dead bodies, “I was actually tracking those darkspawn.”

            “Alone,” Cullen asked, incredulously. 

            A deep rumbling laugh met his ears, causing him to glance away from the man before him.

            “No, not alone.  One of my brothers was injured, so camp was set a little ways from here.  I went on alone, hoping to slow the spawn, or try to kill them before meeting any unsuspecting travelers.”  He smiled wryly, “I seem to have failed at both counts.”

            “Those are truly darkspawn,” Cullen asked, eyeing one of the creatures skeptically.  “And just why were you hunting them?”

            “Which brings us to who I am,” the man smiled, pearly white teeth shining brightly in his dark, leathery face.  “I am Duncan, Warden Commander of the Grey Wardens of Fereldon.”  He bowed his head politely, as if he were meeting a king at his court instead of a lowly templar in a camp along the side of the road.

            “Truly?  A Grey Warden,” Cullen’s eyes danced with childhood stories of deadly warriors and mythical creatures.  He felt a twinge of regret at not being able to see the man in action.  He glanced down at Shattered, a thought chilling him to the bone.  “If they are darkspawn, then does that mean that she…,” he trailed off, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. 

            “No,” Duncan replied.  “I don’t sense any corruption in her; it is only the poison that has sapped her.  She also seems to have drained all of her mana.  The exhaustion that could cause has likely helped lower her defenses against the poison.”  He stood, brushing his hands along his legs.  “If you have another vial of lyrium, give it to her.  More carefully, this time,” he smiled ruefully.  

            “What about you?”

            Duncan smiled down at the templar.  “Well, first I’m going to stack those bodies into a pyre, and then I’m going to rejoin my fellows.”  He gave Cullen’s shoulder a reassuring pat.  “She’ll be fine.  Bandage her up, no sense risking unnecessary infection.”  Cullen nodded, watching as the Warden Commander moved off, slinging the darkspawn bodies into a pile with a casual strength before turning to his task of bandaging Shattered’s wounds.  

            Sighing with relief, the templar finished his task.  Looking up, he was surprised to see that Duncan had already left, the pile of bodies burned sickly, the fire a dark orange and the smoke oily and dark.  Cullen shuddered, remembering how the creatures smelled up close, and was glad the Warden had set them downwind.

            As Cullen carefully held the lyrium to Sha’s lips, his spirits lifted; her breathing was less labored.  The antidote was working its way through her system.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  Standing, Cullen moved to the fire, poking at the contents of the cook pot hopefully.

            

            “Cullen?”

            The weak voice coming from behind him sent the templar swiftly to Shattered’s side.  Her eyes were blinking in confusion, pink tongue darting out to lick at her lips.

            “Shh,” he soothed.  “You’ll be all right.  Just take it easy.”

            Shattered grimaced up at him.  “Why do I taste like lyrium?”

            Smoothing her hair back, Cullen let himself chuckle.  Handing her the water skin, he let his eyes drink in her every move, reassuring himself that Shattered really was okay.

            “You should get some rest,” he said softly when she handed the skin back.

            “Cullen,” she sounded hesitant, drawing his dark, whiskey colored eyes to her violet ones.  He raised his eyebrows, silently questioning.  Shattered bit her lip, embarrassed, eyes darting away.

            “Would you…let me hold you?”  She looked back to him, eyes pleading.  She rushed on, “Just for tonight, just so I know,” she paused, squeezing her eyes shut, “so I know you’re still alive?”

            Cullen carefully kept his surprise hidden as he solemnly nodded, his heart pounding fit to beat out of his chest.  Forcing himself to walk calmly, Cullen retrieved Shattered’s bedroll from where she had lain it out earlier.  He returned to her, surprise raising his eyebrows as his eyes fell on her bloodied robe, folded on the grass next to her.  Heat flushed his cheeks as he realized she must’ve removed it while his back to her, his imagination running wild at the thought of her under the blanket in her smallclothes.  

            Shattered smiled hesitantly up at him.  “I hope it’s okay?”

            Cullen swallowed, his throat bobbing nervously.  “If…I…Is it what you want?”

            Sha gave a shy smile, nodding.  Cullen ran a hand through his hair, hot and cold clashing through him.  Cullen nodded apprehensively, cautiously laying the bedroll out next to Shattered.  He sat down, his back to the mage, and closed his eyes.

            “Maker, give me strength,” he thought to himself.

            His ability to think stopped completely at the feel of her soft lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his neck.  Cullen’s breath caught sharply in his throat.  He could feel her slim fingers caress over his shoulders, reaching hesitantly under the collar of his shirt, nails scraping deliciously across his skin before she laid her palm flat against his chest.  Cullen took a shaky breath, the warmth of her touch igniting a fire everywhere Sha’s fingers trailed.  

            He coughed, shifting uncomfortably as the fire burning through his blood pooled into his loins.  

            “Shattered, please,” his voice came out in a husky rumble, causing the mage to pull quickly away.  Cullen looked over his shoulder at her, surprised to see her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.  

            “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, looking away.  “I just…I thought…”

            Cullen reached out, shushing her with a gentle touch of his fingers to her lips.  “It’s not that, it’s…,” he stopped, unsure how to put it into words, and pulled his shirt off over his head instead of continuing.  Standing, Cullen pulled at the lace of his breeches, carefully keeping his back to Sha to hide the evidence of his arousal as his manhood throbbed painfully.  Cautiously, he returned to Sha’s side, pulling the blanket across himself quickly as he smiled hesitantly at her.  

            Shattered lay back, smiling up as Cullen reached out a shaky hand, running his fingers lightly over her stomach.  Frowning, his brow furrowed as he looked at the bandage over her wound.

            “Does it hurt,” he asked quietly. 

            Sha bit her lip, shaking her head as she looked down.  “No.  It aches a little, but it’s nothing.”

            He sighed, relieved, letting his trembling fingers revel in the feel of Sha’s smooth, soft skin as he ran his hand up over her ribs.  Shattered’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, tugging at his desire as the throbbing in his member kept time with her breathing.  

            Cullen groaned.

            Shifting his weight, he placed his hand on the ground next to Shattered’s head, leaning over her.  Hot breath mingled, Cullen closed his eyes, letting the smell of the lyrium on her breath wash over him, mingling with the raspberry of her hair.

            Warm lips clashed together, forceful, demanding, drawing a moan from Shattered as she pressed up against Cullen’s muscular body.  His resolve was breaking, Sha’s tongue teased against his mouth, slipping in to glide against his when he parted his lips.

            Pressing himself firmly against her, Cullen hissed in a breath, the feel of Sha’s taut thigh against his rigid member sending a spark of lightning through his mind. 

            “Shattered,” he groaned.  

            Her breath hitched, breasts still trapped by a band pressing up against him, begging to be touched.  “Don’t think,” she gasped, hands raking through his golden brown curls.

            Surrender can be so blissful.

            Cullen growled, lips finding Shattered’s throat as he moved between her legs, inexperienced hands trying to touch everywhere at once as he ripped her breast band off.  Calloused fingers brushed over pert breasts, thumbing over piqued nipples.  Shattered cried out when Cullen pulled her smallclothes off, snapping the thin side straps in his haste.  He probed at her center, one thick finger sliding through her slick folds to push inside to be tightly gripped by her damp walls.

            Maker, he couldn’t think.  

            Cullen stopped moving for a moment, resting his forehead on the ground next to Sha’s head.  Lean legs wrapped around his waist just before Sha started moving her hips, rocking back and forth on his finger and making Cullen’s manhood twitch demandingly.  

            Pulling his finger from Sha’s warm center, Cullen tore at his own smallclothes.  Pressing his tip against her slick folds, Cullen braced his weight on his hands, leaning down to press his lips gently to Shattered’s.  

            With a gasp and a sigh, Shattered tightened her legs around Cullen, drawing him in, pulling him past the folds and into her tight center.

            Cullen cried out, his whole body trembling as he strained not to move, overwhelmed by the tight feel of Shattered’s walls wrapped around him.  

            Sha started rocking her hips, biting her lips and moaning at the delicious friction inside her.  Cullen growled, giving into his bodies desires.  Biting down roughly on Sha’s neck, he reached down to grip her hips tightly, thrusting into her with short, quick strokes.

            Shattered’s cries were getting louder, more breathless as her walls squeezed around him.  It spurred on the tight, fiery feeling that was growing low in Cullen’s gut. 

            “Shattered, I…,” he gasped out, cut off as she clamped down around him, a sobbing shrieking cry tearing from her mouth as the mage’s back arched.  It was enough to send Cullen over the edge, the fire in his loins erupting into a starburst behind his eyes as the templar poured himself forth into her velvety depths.  

            Exhausted, Cullen collapsed, his large body falling onto Shattered’s lissom one.  Panting, he rolled, drawing Sha into his arm and firmly against his side.  Closing his eyes against the night sky, Cullen heard Shattered sigh happily, bringing a smile to his lips.


	8. A Templar's Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A secret that can't be revealed, and another that will soon be showing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the original author of the _A Shattered Amell_ fan series. This piece was first posted on deviantArt on Dec 19, 2011.

 

            Sha groaned, her head leaning against the cool stone wall of the privy as she knelt on the floor.  Her stomach lurched, doubling her back over the bucket Neria had put on the floor next to her.

            “Ugh,” the elf wrinkled her nose.  “I just knew you were getting sick.  Ever since you came back from Redcliffe, you’ve been pale.”

            “I’m always pale,” Shattered countered weakly, wiping the back of her hand on her mouth and slumping back against the wall.

            Neria rolled her eyes.  “Okay, you are _extra_ pale.  Paler than normal.”  Suddenly her eyes went wide, making them look comically big.  “It was the darkspawn, wasn’t it,” she whispered.  “It’s all over the tower.  How you and Cullen got attacked.  You’re coming down with the Blight sickness, aren’t you?  You better not give it to me, or I swear,” the elf shook her fist in the air as if to call down the wrath of the Maker.

            Watching her friend’s antics drew a small chuckle from Shattered as she sat there.

            “Seriously, though, you need to get one of the healers to give you a once over.”  

            Shattered looked up, surprised to hear real concern in her friends voice.  Embarrassed, Sha looked away, rubbing her palms along her robe.

            “Is he back yet,” she asked, glancing at Neria out of the corner of her eye.  It was the elf’s turn to be surprised.

            “Anders?  He’s in solitary confinement,” her eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “Why would you want to see him?  You’ve always avoided him, said you didn’t want trouble by association.”  A light went on in her eyes.  “Unless…you already suspect what is causing you to be sick this past week and you don’t want the Senior Enchanters to know.”  Neria gasped, putting a hand over her mouth.  “Oh, Sha,” she whispered, “you didn’t?”

            Shattered sighed, eyes glued to the floor as she slumped down.  She wanted to curl up and die, but there was no way she would lie to her friend.  Reluctantly, she gave a slight nod.

            “By the Gods!”  Neria threw her hands toward the sky.  “What were you thinking?  You, of all people,” she shook her head.  “Are you pranking me?  This is some really elaborate joke, right?”  Sha gave a snort, sobering the elf.  “Wow.”  She slid down the wall next to her friend.  “That’s why you want to see Anders.  You’re not sure.”

            “I’m hoping,” Sha bit her lip.  “I’m hoping I’m wrong.  That it’s just a really persistent cold.”

            Giving her a comforting pat, Neria stood up.  “Well,” she said, offering Sha a hand, “there’s only one way to find out.  The First Enchanter lets me take Anders his food, sometimes.  You’ll just have to ask him if you can take it today,” she shook her head.  “He won’t be happy about this, you know?”

            Shattered’s mouth drew into a thin line.  “I don’t intend for the First Enchanter to find out who the father is.”

            “No, I meant Anders,” the elf clarified, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m certain the boy is head over heels for me,” she grinned confidently, “but you know how he feels about anything Templar or Circle.  And you haven’t exactly been friendly toward him.”

            “Can you really blame me,” Sha moaned as she clutched her stomach.  “He is always in trouble!  It’s a wonder they haven’t made him tranquil yet.”

            Neria rolled her eyes, sending a small bit of healing energy into her friend to help quell the nausea.  “And yet here you are, possibly with the get of a templar in your womb.”

            “You say it like you’re talking about animals,” Sha mumbled.  

            “They are!  And up until a few months ago, you would’ve been cowering in fear, not bedding one!”  Neria threw her hands up in exasperation.  She glared at Sha, fists planted firmly on her hips when a suddenly horrified look crossed her face.  “Holy Maker,” she whispered, “he didn’t force you, did he?  I swear, I will tear him apart myself!  After what happened to you the last time you were out, how could he even –“

            “No,” Sha interrupted quickly, not wanting Neria to stay on that train of thought, “Cullen would never force me!  It was my…idea.”  She trailed off, confused as she saw a self-satisfied smirk spread across the elf’s face.  Sha groaned.

            “I knew I would get you to spill eventually,” the elf said smugly.  She clapped her hands together, “Let’s go!  It’s almost lunch time and if Irving is feeling especially nice today, you just may get to have Anders’ hands all over your,” she wriggled her nose in distaste, “womanly parts.”

            Shattered groaned, thinking how the escapist would just love this as she let Neria drag her from the privy toward the First Enchanter’s office.

 

            Irving furrowed his brow as he looked at the two girls before him.

            “I don’t quite understand the reasoning behind this request,” he said neutrally.  “Perhaps if you could explain it to me, I would be in a better position to answer?”

            Neria smiled winningly at him, Shattered nervously fiddling next to her, eyes locked onto the corner of Irving’s desk.  She couldn’t stand lying to him, there was no way she could meet his eye while doing it.  Keeping her mouth firmly closed, Sha let Neria handle the messy business.

            “You see, First Enchanter,” Neria could act very charming when she wanted, “Shattered was just telling me how much fun she had, travelling to Redcliffe and aiding a woman in distress,” she smiled sweetly, “It made me think, why not let her tell Anders?  It would certainly boost his morale, knowing a mage had been allowed out of the tower.  Plus,” she held up a finger as though she were making a very important point, “it may let him see that good behavior is rewarded.”  Neria smiled confidently, crossing her slim arms over her chest.

            Sighing, Irving ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it against his chest.  “Very well, I will allow it,” he nodded at them.

            Neria smiled, thanking the First Enchanter as she tugged Shattered from his office.  

            Sha felt sick.

            Irving sighed, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward against his desk.  

            “Well,” Greagoir asked, stepping out from behind the screen that sectioned off the back corner of Irving’s office.

            Resigned, Irving closed his eyes and nodded.  “It is as we suspected.”

            Greagoir’s shoulders slouched in defeat.  He ran a hand over the lines worn into his face.  “Her Harrowing is to be soon.  Will it be safe?”  Worry tinged his voice.  

            “It will be fine.”

            “Providing she doesn’t fail,” Greagoir said reproachfully.  

            “Yes, providing she doesn’t fail,” Irving agreed.  “She won’t fail,” he added, a bit more confidently.

            Greagoir moved to the door.  He paused, looking back over his shoulder at Irving.  “I will have a word with the boy.”  The First Enchanter answered him with a nod.  “Irving,” the Knight-Commander entreated, “I don’t want him to know about this other development.”

            “Of course,” Irving nodded his acquiescence.  

 

            Cullen stood, nervously twitching his fingers as he gazed down at Greagoir’s impassive expression.  The Knight-Commander looked tiredly at him.  

            “You understand what it means, that her Harrowing will be soon?”

            Cullen swallowed.  So this wasn’t about his…indiscretion.  A small hope bloomed in his chest that perhaps the Knight-Commander would never find out.  

            “Yes,” he said, a bit more confidently, “Miss Amell will be moved to the Mage quarters after her Harrowing.”

            “Indeed,” Greagoir’s eyes studied him carefully.  “I called you here because I have a task for you, involving Sha -,” he cleared his throat, “Miss Amell’s Harrowing.”

            “Her Harrowing, Ser?”  Cullen’s brow furrowed in confusion.  Templars weren’t directly involved in a mage’s Harrowing.  Not unless they were…oh no.  He swallowed, his face draining of color.

            Greagoir nodded, “You understand, then?”

            “Please, Knight-Commander, don’t ask this of me,” Cullen pleaded.  “I cannot!  I will not!”  Tear drops pricked the corners of his eyes.

            “You can and you will,” Greagoir shouted, slamming his gauntleted hand onto his desk with a clang as he stood, chair crashing to the ground with a bang behind him.  Fury and sympathy warred across the older man’s face.  “You will do your duty as a templar, or you will watch as someone else does it, do you understand,” the sudden softness of the Knight-Commander’s voice did nothing to hide the deadly steel of his thinly veiled threat.

            His breath hitching, Cullen nodded, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

            Greagoir gave a curt nod.  “You understand then,” he turned his back, unwilling to look the young templar in the face, “if she should succumb, you are to end it.”

            “Yes, Knight-Commander.”

            Greagoir sighed, closing his eyes.  “And you understand that should her Harrowing succeed, you are to end it?”

            “Yes, I…What?”  Cullen’s jaw dropped open in disbelief.  He ran a hand through his curly hair, frowning at the Knight-Commander’s back.  “You can’t seriously be asking me to…to…to murder,” he spat the word, “Shattered after she completes her Harrowing?  That’s…That’s…”

            “That is not what I’m telling you, Ser Cullen,” Greagoir sighed, his gaze wandering over the shelves of ledgers behind his desk.  “I am telling you that you must end _it_.  And don’t patronize me by acting as though there is nothing to end,” a hint of anger entered his voice as he turned back toward his subordinate.  His brows drew together in consternation, “Don’t think I don’t know what goes on with my own templars.  You must end it.  Before the Chantry Sisters find out,” weariness passed over his features.  “Maker knows what they would do, to the both of you.”

            Cullen tried to swallow the lump in his throat, scrubbing roughly at his cheeks.  “I understand,” he said brokenly.  Haunted eyes looked up to meet those of the Knight-Commander.  “She will never forgive me, you know?  For being the one to…to deliver the killing blow, should she fail.”

            “I know, son,” Greagoir reached down to pick up his chair.  “Such is the life of a templar.”

 

            Anders was slowly circling the confines of his cell when Sha and Neria made their way through the door and into the holding area.

            “Hey, beautiful,” he perked up spotting Neria balancing the tray holding his lunch in front of her.  

            Neria smirked, giving her hair a flip as she sauntered over to the smiling mage.

            Then he spotted Shattered, nervously wringing her hands, and the smile faded.  

            “Well,” his voice dripped sarcasm, “if it isn’t the First Enchanter’s pet.  To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?  Did they send you to give me a lecture?  Convert me into a Circle worshipper like you,” he snorted in disgust.  “No thanks, I’ll just take the sandwich, if you please.”

            “Now Anders,” Neria scolded, “don’t be like that.  Our little Shattered has been turning into a woman while you’ve been locked away down here.”  She smiled lasciviously, but Anders just grunted, popping a grape into his mouth from the tray.

            “Please,” Shattered asked quietly, moving forward to stand near the bars of Anders’ cage.  Her arm crossed over her stomach, she raised her eyes to hesitantly meet his.  “I need your help.”

            Letting out a noisy sigh, he stood, scratching at his chin.  “Well, out with it, then.  What do you need?”

            Shattered mumbled under her breath, cheeks blazing with embarrassment and eyes darting to the side.

            “Dammit girl,” Anders cried out, crossly.  “I can’t help you if I can’t hear you!”

            Furious violet eyes snapped back to Anders bright amber ones.  

            “I want you to check to see if I’m pregnant,” she said loudly, hands darting up to clamp over her mouth as she realized how forcefully it had come out.

            Anders smirked.  “What, someone’s finally broken through your chastity belt?  Why come to me?  Have one of the other Mages or Enchanters check for you,” he started to turn away when a thought stopped him, “unless…it’s father is someone it shouldn’t be,” he slowly turned back toward her.  “Someone…like a templar.”  

            Anders snarled, pushing forward, his arm snaking out between the bars to wrap around Sha and pull her close, surprising a squeak out of her.  His other hand went between the bars to press between her hips right above the pubic bone.

            Shattered struggled against his grip, surprise and fear rushing through her veins.

            “Stop moving, I am only doing as you asked,” he ground out, stilling her, something dark filling his voice.  Closing his eyes, Anders sent a tentative trickle of magic into Sha’s belly.  Dejected, he slumped to his knees, releasing Shattered so she could step back.  He swallowed thickly, looking up at her with hurt in his eyes.

            “You are with child,” he said quietly, voice cracking.  Anger hardened his features.  “With a templar’s child.”  He surged to his feet, grabbing the front of Sha’s robes through the bars, pulling her toward him.  “Did he force you?  Where you raped,” his lip curled in distaste.  

            “No, I –“

            “They shouldn’t get away with this, you know.  The Templars, the Chantry, the Circle.  It’s all just a prison.  Mages like you and I, we should be free.  Free to love whom we wish, free to marry whom we wish, free to –“

            “ANDERS!”  Shattered looked at him in consternation.  “I wanted to be with him.  He didn’t force me.”

            Surprise lit the mages face as he staggered slightly under the revelation.  “You…wanted to be with him?  To be with a templar,” his voice was filled with anguish.  “Why?  Why would you do such a thing?”

            Shattered smiled slightly, bowing her head to gaze at her fingers.  “I think I love him,” she said quietly.  She looked back to Anders with a shrug.  “You said you wanted to love whomever you wished?  I wish to love him.”

            Anders turned his back on them, his shoulders bowed in grief.  His voice was rough when it reached Sha’s ears.  “Go.   Now.  You have your answer.”

            Neria smiled lightly, shrugging and taking Sha’s hand to lead her out of the holding area.  

            “Thank you,” Sha called lightly over her shoulder. 

            The girls were long gone before Anders moved again, sighing and slouching onto his cot to wipe at tear stained cheeks.  

            “All this time,” he whispered, “all for nothing.  If only,” he bit his lip, “if only I could’ve found a way sooner.”  He closed his eyes, picturing Shattered hunched over a book in the corner of the library while he watched her from afar.  

            Anders clenched his teeth, thumping the side of his fist against the rock wall beside him.  All that escaping, all that planning, trying to find a way to get Shattered out where she could live and breathe and they could be free together.  All for nothing, he shook his head bitterly.

 


	9. It's Harrowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shattered begins her Harrowing, but who is it really a test for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the original author of the _A Shattered Amell_ fan series. This piece was first posted on deviantArt on Feb 18, 2012.

 

            “Could you…could we just…stop.  For a moment.  Please,” Cullen called, taking his helm off and leaning against the cool stone wall of the hall leading to the apprentice quarters.  Carroll stopped, turning to look quizzically back at him.

            Closing his eyes, Cullen willed his nerves to calm.  Knight-Commander Greagoir had woken him barely half an hour ago, calling him to armor up – it was time.  Swallowing his nerves, Cullen had just nodded, knowing exactly what Greagoir was talking about.  Now, though, walking down the hall to wake Shattered, the butterflies were sending waves of nausea through him.  The delicious stew he’d had for dinner sat heavy in his belly, feeling disgusting as it congealed.  

            Wiping the cold sweat away from his forehead, Cullen fought the urge to vomit.

            “Uhh, you’re not coming down with something, are you?  Because if you are, I’m not so sure I want to stand near you.  Nothing personal, it just might be,” Carroll shrugged, “catchy.”

            “Uh, no.  I…umm…I just,” Cullen paused, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat, “Just give me a moment, will you?”  He turned his back to Carroll, taking a ragged breath that did nothing to help settle his nerves.  

            “Oh, I get it,” Carroll replied, sudden enlightenment lending compassion to his voice.  “We’re going for _her_ aren’t we?”  Sympathy filled his eyes.  “I feel for you, man.  I really do,” he scuffed a toe at a dust mote on the floor of the passage.  He shrugged, his plate armor unnecessarily loud in their quite surroundings, making Cullen cringe.  “It’s all over the Templar wing, you know?  How Greagoir ordered you to be the one.  The first time is always the hardest, they say,” he patted Cullen’s shoulder comfortingly.  

            That gave Cullen a brief amount of relief.  Carroll, like the others, had thought his nervousness came from being the one chosen to end it in case Shattered fell to a demon during her harrowing, and not from the fact that it was _her_ harrowing.

            “Buck up, chap.  Happy thoughts, eyes of the Maker, in His name and all that,” Carroll smiled, giving him a thumbs up.

            Cullen snorted, shaking his head.  Sometimes he wondered if his friend was getting a touch lyrium addled already.  

            “Alright,” he replied, settling his helm back into place.  “Let’s go.”  With a nod, the two resumed their way toward the apprentice quarters.  Each step made his body feel heavier, weighed down by his armor, by his very faith.  Could the Maker, and Andraste, really want this?  Could they really want him to kill…to snuff out the life of someone as sweet and beautiful as Sha?  Her life had already been so full of pain.  Cullen felt each step through his bones, reverberating from the soles of his feet to the base of his skull where it stuck, aching in the back of his head where his doubts lay, picking at his mind.

            Far sooner than he wanted, they arrived at the door that would lead him to Shattered.  

            “I’ll, umm…I’ll just stay here while you get her, if it’s all the same to you,” Carroll said.

            Nodding gravely, Cullen pushed the door open lightly.  Quietly, he stepped into the darkened room, making his way to Shattered’s bedside.  He gazed down at her, a small bit of starlight shining through the window to light her face, peaceful in her dreams.  Careful to make as little noise as possible, Cullen knelt at her bedside; pulling one of his gauntlets off to reach a shaking hand out, his trembling fingers reverently touching lavender hair.  Moving a wisp of hair from her cheek, Cullen memorized the feel of her skin against his fingers, the silkiness of her hair.  He pulled in a deep breath, letting the smell of raspberries tickle his brain.  

            “Shattered,” he whispered softly, his hand cupping her cheek, thumb softly tracing over delicate lips.  She moaned softly in her sleep, sending a flush across the templar’s face as his blood heated, flaming through his veins.  Pulling his hand away, Cullen coughed slightly, embarrassed at his bodies reaction.  “Shattered,” he whispered again, louder, unwilling to reach out to her again for fear of any more traitorous reactions he might have.

            “Hmmm?  I…what?”  Sha mumbled, rubbing a hand groggily across her eyes.  She blinked up at him, a slight tremble in her lip the only indication of her fear as she pulled her blanket up to her chin.

            “Sha,” Cullen said softly, reassured when she relaxed and smiled sleepily up at him.  “It’s time.”

            Understanding lit in her eyes, followed by a flash of fear and then sorrow as her smile faded, mouth drawn into a tight line.  She nodded, throwing her blanket off and swinging her legs over the side of the bed to stand, her nightgown clinging lightly to her delicate frame.  There was only one reason the templars would be coming to get her in the middle of the night.  Once she left this room, took their test, there would be no going back.  Never again would she be who she was in this very moment.  Shattered looked down at herself, wondering if she would miss the person she was.  

            Her harrowing.

            Offering a sad smile to Cullen, she turned to her footlocker, gathering her robes.

            “Do you intend to watch me dress, Ser Cullen, or do you trust me to join you in the hall when I’m finished,” Sha asked playfully, glancing at him shyly over her shoulder.

            For the second time in as few minutes, Cullen was grateful for the closed face of the templar helm hiding the flush on his cheeks.  Pulling his gauntlet back on, Cullen thumbed over his shoulder to the hallway.  

            “I’ll..uh…I’ll just be waiting.  Outside,” he ducked his head and turned quickly away, mind burning with the image of Shattered.  Standing there in her white nightgown.  Soft fabric hugging to her gentle curves.  Maker help him.  Cullen hurried into the hallway.

            

            Shattered offered a tentative smile as she followed after Cullen a few moments later.  Carroll gave her a jaunty wave before gesturing for her to proceed them down the hall.

            “She’ll be fine,” Carroll whispered as they climbed the never ending stairs to the Harrowing Chamber.  

            “Maker, I hope so,” Cullen answered.  “What they ask of me,” he paused shaking his head, “I’m not sure I can do.”

            Shrugging, Carroll looked to him, “I’m not sure that’s your choice,” he nodded to Shattered as she continued climbing ahead of them.  “It’s completely up to her whether you will need to..,” Carroll trailed off, eyes locking with Cullen’s through the slit in their helms, “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, shall we?”

            Cullen paused, clutching convulsively at his stomach while the butterflies churned up a fresh batch of raw nerves as he watched Carroll cheerfully continue after Sha.  If she couldn’t withstand the demons…he would have to do something he didn’t want to.  He didn’t know if he would be able to, or if he could forgive himself if he did.  It was a test for him, too.

            His harrowing.

            There it was.  The top of the stairs.  The door.  Shattered reached forward hesitantly, laying her palm against wood worn with age.  Beyond this lay her future, or her death.  There was no turning back.  She wondered briefly if she would see this side of the door again once she passed through, and then Carroll was there, brushing past her and pushing the door open as he continued on into the chamber ahead of her.  

            “Good luck,” Cullen whispered from behind her, his hand gently touching her arm.  

            Her smile trembled slightly as she looked back at him, her heart pounding in her ears.  Squaring her shoulders, she walked in.  

            Greagoir and Irving turned toward her; Sha smiled.  They were proud of her, she knew.  The two men who had supported her the most, no matter how inconspicuously.  They believed in her ability, that she would be successful in her Harrowing, and so she must believe in herself as well.  

            “You’re magic is a gift, but also a curse,” Greagoir addressed her, willing her to understand the necessity of this final test.  “The demons of the fade are drawn to you.  They seek to use you as a gateway to this world.  Especially a mage like you, Shattered,” gently, the Knight-Commander reached out, resting his hand on Sha’s face, cupping her cheek much how Cullen had moments before.

            “It is not often we see one so young with your potential,” Irving clarified.  “They will be drawn to you like a moth to the flame.  The ritual will send you into the fade.  Armed with only your will, you will face a demon.”  Irving’s voice took on a hard edge, “You must defeat it.  You must prove your ability to resist.”

            Shattered nodded her understanding.  Greagoir fidgeted slightly, looking uncomfortable.  

            “You must resist,” he said fervently.  “If you don’t,” he shook his head, reluctant to continue.  Finally, he reached out, gripping her shoulders firmly, almost painfully.  “If you don’t, you will turn into an abomination, and we will be forced to slay you.”  He gave her a light shake.  “Do you understand, girl?”  His voice dropped, “I don’t want to see that.  Not you, I couldn’t stand it.  Do you understand?”

            Numbly, Shattered nodded again, her voice gone.  She had known before that would be her fate if she failed, but to hear it said out loud forced it from the dark corners of her mind.  Briefly, her imagination flashed on the image of Cullen, kneeling over her limp body while he held her slight form with one hand on her back between her shoulder blades, the other on the grip of his sword, its tip resting on the ground and its blade against her neck.  A shiver went through her body, goose bumps covering her arms as she swallowed convulsively, running a hand over her throat where she imagined she could already feel his blade, her eyes searching among the templars in attendance to pick him out.  

            Shaking herself, Shattered made an effort to focus on Greagoir’s words.  

            “This is lyrium,” he told her, gesturing to a pedestal, smoky tendrils drifting down its sides.  “The very essence of magic, and your gateway into the fade.”

            “Keep your wits about you, things are not what they seem.  Remember,” Irving advised, “the fade is a realm of dreams.  The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real.”

            “Every mage must go through this trial,” Greagoir told her.  “As they have succeeded, so will you.  I have no doubt.”

            “There is nothing more we can do to aid you,” Irving told her, gently.  “Once you enter the fade you will be on your own.”

            “She will succeed,” Greagoir told Irving firmly.  “You are ready.”  His gaze was steady as he looked at her, his voice confident.

            Shattered smiled.  She wished she was as sure of her success as he was.  Reaching out, she gave Irving’s hand a soft squeeze, and offered Greagoir a bright smile before walking forward to the pedestal. 

            Reaching out, Shattered spread her hand wide over the lyrium.  Her magic reacted, pulling at her as it strained toward the lyrium, surging through her.  The lyrium seemed just as eager to get to her magic, the tendrils she’d seen earlier reaching toward her hand, wrapping around her.  

            Sha made a face.  Where the magic and lyrium touched, intertwining, she felt tingling.  Prickles along her skin and in her blood, it resonated in her bones.  She gasped as her magic and the lyrium had its way, ripping her consciousness from her body to the fade, leaving her physical form to collapse into Greagoir’s waiting arms.

            “Knight-Commander, Ser,” Cullen called nervously, stepping forward as Greagoir and Irving carefully lay Sha on the chamber floor as comfortably as they could.

            “Yes, Ser Cullen,” Greagoir answered absently, his eyes locked to Shattered’s closed lids as her eyes darted back and forth under them, looking at something in the fade he couldn’t fathom.

            “What you said…before…to Sh…Miss Amell.  Did you mean it, Ser?”

            Greagoir’s brow furrowed in confusion, wondering what the young templar could mean.  “About her succeeding,” he asked tentatively, a slight smile gracing his face at Cullen’s enthusiastic nod.  Standing, Greagoir put a reassuring hand to the younger man’s shoulder.

            “I meant every word of it.”

 


	10. Valor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need to trust your first instincts - especially ones about suspicous mice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the original author of the _A Shattered Amell_ fan series. This piece was first posted on deviantArt on March 25, 2012.

 

            _"Things are not what they seem."_

            Irving's words echoed through Shattered's head as she groaned, pushing herself into a sitting position from the ground she was laying on.  That was certainly...different, she thought.  Although, with all the things the apprentices had been told of the Fade, she wasn't exactly sure what she had expected.  Dangerous pitfalls, hungry demons at every corner and extravagant treats to tempt her, but nothing as mundane as opening her eyes to find herself laying on the ground.  Taking a deep breath, Sha wondered distractedly if she only thought she was taking a deep breath, or if her body had actually done it as it lay on the tower floor.  It was pretty disconcerting to think of being in two places at once; Shattered put a hand to her forehead, frowning as she rubbed at it, willing a wave of dizziness to pass.  Did all mages feel this way when first entering the Fade, or was it caused by the new life growing within her? 

            Drawing her mouth into a determined line, Sha struggled to her feet.  While she didn't think time spent here would put the babe at risk, there was no point in dallying.  Just in case.  Besides, she put a hand to her throat, swallowing nervously; there was really no need to give the Templars reason to doubt her return.  Centering herself to calm the anxiety churning in her stomach, Shattered opened her eyes to gaze across the hazy, shifting landscape before her.  Unwilling to simply wait for a demon to come find her, because who knows how long that would take, Shattered took a hesitant step forward.  She smiled, relieved that her silly notion that the ground would simply dissolve beneath her feet hadn't been true.  Squaring her shoulders, Sha held her head high and stepped out more confidently, eager to find her release from the Harrowing.

            Sparks, wisps, whatever you chose to call them, they were barely more than a puff of smoke.  Shattered frowned as another one dissipated before her.  Surely these weak things weren't what she'd been sent here to fight.  If they hadn't attacked her first, she would've been inclined to let them be.  But they wouldn't let her pass, and she couldn't just let them continue to attack her, so it had been a simple thing to dispose of them.  

            There had to be something more that she was missing.  She frowned, looking around suspiciously.  Had she been so nervous that she’d missed a vital bit of information on how the Harrowing was supposed to work?  Searching through her memories, Sha tried to pick out the bits of conversation she’d been too anxious to pay attention to.  Perhaps there had been a ‘Ring the bell’ or ‘Knock three times’ in there somewhere that would summon the demon she was to face.  

            “Someone else thrown to the wolves,” a sly voice startled her from nearby and Sha cursed herself for being taken by surprise as her narrowed eyes spotted the brown ball of fur at her feet.  

            “ _Things are not what they seem.”_   Irving’s words rang through her head again as she watched the talking rat shift into a man.  A shiver ran up Shattered’s spine, her skin itched like bugs were crawling across her flesh.  Something about this creature was…off, to say the least.  While its words seemed plausible, it made her feel like someone had stepped on her grave.  Taking a deep breath, Sha mentally bolstered her defenses.  Despite how…helpful…this Mouse seemed to be, there was no point in being naïve.  In the fade, it would be easy to be distracted by the obvious threat while overlooking the greater danger of a traitorous snake at your heel.

            “You mentioned other spirits here,” Sha asked cautiously.  

            “Yes,” Mouse answered eagerly, “There are some…minor spirits that reside in this section of the fade.  They are inconsequential, though,” he said firmly.  “They are not your opponent.  If you would like, it couldn’t hurt for you to talk with them,” he smiled at her, eyes glittering and making Sha’s skin prickle again.  

            “Lead the way,” she told him firmly, eyes locked unwaveringly on his.

            “But I…You...,” a grimace of displeasure flickered across his face before Mouse was able to cover it with a carefully neutral expression.  “As you wish,” he nodded acquiescence, outline blurring as he made the shift from man back to mouse.

            “What is that,” Shattered asked breathlessly as they topped a small rise, momentarily forgetting her wariness as her eye travelled over an island floating in the distance.  

            “That is the Black City,” Mouse informed her solemnly, whiskers twitching as he followed her gaze.  “They say it has been empty since the Magisters of the ancient Imperium tainted it with their presence.”

            Shattered stood there, dumbfounded.  Even from their great distance from the city, she could still see the grand towers and spires, stretching upward in their corrupt glory, reaching toward the sky.

            “Can we go there,” she asked softly, imagining the Golden City from Chantry lore – the seat of the Maker.

            Mouse snorted at her.  “None have entered the City since the Tevinters.”

            Shattered came back to herself with a start.  The Chantry wasn’t likely to let mages forget how that venture had turned out anytime soon.  She grimaced as she looked down, noting how uncomfortably close Mouse had gotten while she had been preoccupied.  A brief notion of kicking the creature flittered through her mind, drawing the corners of her mouth up as she wondered if she could send him over the edge of their little bit of the fade and what would happen…after.  Was there a bottom, somewhere, down there?  Or would there just be endless falling?

            A wave of nausea swept through Sha, causing her to wobble slightly on her feet as she doubled over clutching her stomach.  

            “Are you well,” Mouse asked, innocent enough for a show of concern, but Shattered’s mouth pulled into a grim line.  She had seen the greedy glitter in his beady little eye as they passed appraisingly over her slim form.

            “I’m fine,” she straightened with determination.  It was time to get out of here; the more time she spent in the Fade the more danger her child was in, she could feel it.  “You were showing me the way to one of these spirits,” she prodded.

            “Ah, yes,” Mouse’s sneer was evident in his voice.  “Valor.  He’s rather talky.  I doubt he’d be much help at all.  We should just skip talking to him; he’ll simply bore you to death,” he gave Sha a sly sidelong glance.  “If you’re not dead already.”

            “I will be the judge of how useful he is,” Shattered replied haughtily.  She narrowed her eyes at the small mouse.  “It will take more than insinuation to make me give up.”

            Mouse’s fur bristled.  “We shall see,” he snarled moving off toward a campfire in the distance.

            

            “Another mortal thrust unwittingly into the flame, I see.”  

            A soothing calm surged through Shattered as the words of the spirit washed over her.  Ducking her head, Sha let a slight smile curve her lips.  For the first time since entering the Fade, she felt she could relax.  She wondered at herself, that a spirit who resembled a templar could be a source of comfort.  

            “That you remain indicates the demon you were sent to battle still lives.  It is trapped here, as you are, until one of you has been defeated.  I wish you a glorious battle,” Valor inclined his head respectfully.

            Looking around, Shattered’s eyes widened at the racks of weaponry surrounding the spirit.  “Did you make all of these,” she asked, slightly awed.

            “They are brought into being by my will,” a hint of pride could be found in his voice.

            “Your will,” Shattered asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

            “Indeed.  In this realm, everything that exists is the expression of a thought,” Valor gestured to the racks.  “Do you think that these blades be steel?  The staves be wood?  Do you believe they draw blood?  They are only as strong as the mind that wields them.”

            _“The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real.”_   Shattered shook herself, the words ghosting through her mind.

            “Could I make a weapon as you do,” she asked tentatively, glancing to the spirit.  

            “Just use one of his,” Mouse insisted.  “Pick one and let’s be off.”

            It was tempting, Sha had to admit, to simply pluck a readymade staff from one of the weapon racks behind Valor, but it felt wrong.  

            “No,” she shook her head regretfully.  “They are Valor’s weapons, made by his will.  I must defeat the demon on my own,” she smiled at the spirit.  “Using one of your weapons would feel like cheating.”

            Valor nodded approvingly.  “Very well said.  I am certain you will have no trouble willing your own weapon into being.  Your need is great, and your will is strong.  You have shown a truly honorable soul.”  Gesturing her closer to his campfire, Valor nodded for Sha to sit.  

            “That’s it?  I just sit here,” she looked to the spirit for direction.

            “Look inside yourself, mortal,” Valor directed her.  “Think of your need for a weapon, of what you must do with that weapon and why.  Your will will make it real.”

            Shattered folded her legs, shifting on the ground to get comfortable.  She moved her hands to rest palm up across her knees before closing her eyes.  A malicious glee washed across her consciousness, snapping Sha’s eyes open to meet the two greedy, sly orbs of Mouse as he had crept closer to the mage.  

            “I don’t think this will work,” Sha said, despairing that her voice shook a little, revealing her fear.  

            “Do not worry, mortal,” Valor said, stepping forward to stand next to her.  “I shall watch over you during this time; no harm will come to you.  You have my word; none shall pass so long as I am here.”

            Shattered looked up, a grateful smile brightening her face.  Valor nodded to her then turned his gaze back to Mouse.  

            Closing her eyes, Shattered directed her thoughts inward, ignoring the shrieking gibber of madness at the edge of her consciousness.  Whatever Mouse was, he wouldn’t be able to get to her, not now.  

            Valor watched over her.

 

 

 


	11. A Mouse A Demon

#  11 – A Mouse A Demon

 

            A weapon.  What kind of weapon, Sha mused to herself.  In her mind’s eye, Shattered pictured a demon leering menacingly at her.  How did one slay a demon?  Immediately, Cullen came to mind.  She could picture him, standing in front of her in his templar plate, the Sword of Mercy emblazoned across his chest and his Great Sword raised in her defense.  Was that how you defeated a demon?  With a sword?  That wouldn’t work; she would never have the strength to swing something that large.  Sha frowned, her brow drawing down to crease her forehead.  Cullen’s sword was taller than she was; thinking that into existence was out of the question. 

            No, a sword wasn’t the way to go.  Even if she could think one up that she would be able to swing, it would likely do more harm than good.  _‘A combatant fighting with a weapon they aren’t trained with is just as likely to cut themselves in half as their opponent,’_ she remembered Cullen telling her once as they sat next to their garden taking a break from planting to eat lunch.  It had been nervous rambling, as he frequently did during breaks from working the plot.  For her part, Shattered was usually more interested in listening to the rumbling sound of his voice as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the cool grass, the hot sun beating warmly at their backs.  When speaking about a subject he was familiar and comfortable with, Cullen rarely stuttered.  Maybe that was why she could recall the words so easily. 

            It would have to be a staff, then.  Something straight, and strong.  With a crystal at the top to help focus her energy.  The comforting feel of wood against her palms startled Shattered, smooth with a reassuring weight.  She opened her eyes to look at her work. 

            “To soon,” Valor told her reproachfully as the faint outline of a staff shimmered in her hands before disintegrating, slipping through her fingers to be lost to the Fade.  “Do not look at what you make, only think.  You will know when it is finished.  A weapon is a single need for battle.”  Valor swept his arm to take in the racks surrounding his part of the Fade.  “It does not need you to see it for it to be, it needs only to have a purpose.”

            Biting her lip, Shattered nodded.  “I will try to be more patient,” she said softly. 

            Kneeling beside her, the spirit searched Shattered’s face through the slit in his helm, concern crinkling the corners of his eyes.  “Do not let urgency hurry you,” he advised.  “Here in the Fade, time does not always move in the way you would expect it.”

            Surprised, Sha stiffened, eyes wide as she gazed at Valor.  “What do you mean,” she whispered.

            Shrugging, Valor stood.  “Simply that, here in this realm of dreams, time can be slow or fast in comparison to other realms.  What to you feels like a year, could only be mere moments in your own world.”

            It heartened Shattered, to think that little more than a few minutes had passed.  She didn’t think that the spirit would make up something like that just to make her feel better.  Reminding herself to be patient, Sha closed her eyes, focusing once more on the task at hand.  A staff should be long and straight, sturdy and strong.  Keeping only her purpose in mind, Shattered focused on the coming battle.  The staff materialized in her palms so slowly, she didn’t even notice until it had finished, startling her with its sudden weight across her hands.

            Eyes snapping open, she looked down in shock at the length of wood in her hands.  It was a long, sturdy length of heartwood.  A pale blue focusing crystal sat at the apex, finger like branches of dark wood grown straight from the staff to twine around the stone holding it securely in place.  Her eyes widened as they swept to the bottom of the staff.  Instead of tapering down to a blunt end, it kept a uniform thickness all the way down to join a bladed tip, a strip of red leather wound around the binding point. 

            Gasping in surprise, Shattered glanced up at Valor with narrowed eyes.  Through the slit in his helm, she saw the edges of his eyes crinkle in pleasure.  “It is a fine weapon,” he nodded approvingly as he looked over Sha’s creation. 

            “It’s practically a sword,” Sha cried out, fingers clutched tightly around the shaft.

            Unperturbed, Valor shrugged.  “It is the expression of your single need for battle.  It is what it is because that is what you need it to be.”

            Hesitantly, Shattered got to her feet, eyes locked on the blade at the bottom of the staff in disbelief.  Giving the weapon an experimental twirl, she slammed it point down at the ground and let out an inarticulate noise at the resulting shockwave that rippled through the ground in front of her. 

            A hearty laugh rumbled from behind Valor’s helm.  “It is acceptable,” he asked, a slight twinkle in his translucent eyes.

            “Quite,” she answered softly, still stunned at the power she felt thrumming through the wood from a single move.

            “Shouldn’t you get a move on,” Mouse’s voice cut through Shattered’s stupor, breaking the commune she had with the weapon.  “Wouldn’t want to make the templars think you’ve failed,” he sneered, lip curled upward to reveal a jagged row of teeth.

            “I…yes,” Sha stiffened, running a hand across her throat.  Offering a smile up at Valor, she bowed slightly at the waist.  “Thank you.  It means more than I can say to have had your aid.”

            “Indeed, mortal,” he inclined his head faintly.  “The pleasure was mine.”  The weight of his armored hand fell on Shattered’s shoulder as she turned to leave the spirit’s campsite, startling her.  Looking back, Sha’s eyes met the concerned gaze of Valor.  “Be careful, mortal,” he told her quietly.  “The company you keep…is not what it seems.”

            Flicking her eyes in the direction Mouse had taken, Shattered nodded.  “I am aware, spirit,” she told him.  “And I thank you for the warning.  Do you know what he is,” she asked, brows drawn together.

            Uncertain, Valor’s gaze moved over her head.  “I…do not know,” he sounded apologetic.  Meeting her gaze again, he gripped Sha’s shoulder tightly.  “I know only that he is strong.  Perhaps stronger than what you are meant to fight.  Do not trust him.”

            Mouth drawn into a grim line, Shattered nodded her understanding.  Reaching up, she gave the hand resting on her shoulder a firm squeeze before turning back toward Mouse with determination. 

            “Finally,” he huffed at her as Sha drew even with the small furry body.  “For a moment there, I thought you had decided to spend the rest of your days wasting away at Valor’s fire thinking up weaponry you’ll never use.”  Rolling a beady eye, Mouse glared up at her.  “Shall we be off, then?  I’m rather…anxious for you to meet my friend.”  He grinned, but it looked false, sending a chill up Shattered’s spine to tickle at the base of her skull.

            “I think not,” Shattered snorted.  Mouth dropped open revealing rows of needle sharp teeth, Mouse gaped at her.  Trying to appear confident and unconcerned, Shattered braced a hand on her hip, the delicate fingers of her hand wrapped firmly around her new staff as she let it rest lightly against the ground.  “Valor was quite useful,” she told him, eyes scanning the surrounding area, “yet you were insistent that I not speak long with him.”

            Mouse gazed up at her through narrowed eyes.  “I didn’t want you wasting time with that fool,” he told her slowly, trying to sound aloof but unable to hide the rage that seethed behind his eyes. 

            “And yet you are adamant that I go see this other...friend of yours.  This demon,” her eyes sparked as they snapped to glare down at Mouse.  “No.  I think not.  I may be inexperienced in the Fade, but I am not naive enough to volunteer to be trapped with two of you.”  Shattered’s mouth was drawn into a thin line, her chin stuck out in determination.

            “Fine,” Mouse snarled, then made a visible effort to reign in his emotions.  Taking a deep breath, he continued more calmly.  “Fine.  I will…lead you to the one you seek,” he grumbled, turning away from her.

            Letting out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, Shattered sighed and followed behind the mouse that wasn’t a mouse.  She wondered bleakly to herself what was stopping him from taking her wherever he chose, anyhow.  It wasn’t as though she would know the difference until it was too late.

            “Here,” Mouse huffed, stomping his paws ineffectually.  “This is where the demon is you are meant to fight.”  His black eyes glittered as he looked up at Shattered.  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll fail,” he asked, cocking his head to the side.  “Don’t you wish you had some…extra help,” Mouse’s lips curled upward, sending a chill up Shattered’s spine at the maliciousness she could feel seething just below the surface. 

            “I think not,” she answered stiffly, eyes sweeping over the small clearing he had indicated.

           

            Fretting inwardly, Cullen tried to keep his face that of an impassive templar as he watched over Shattered’s small form shivering on a blanket laid across the Harrowing chamber’s floor. 

            “Do you think she’s cold,” he wondered out loud, glancing up at the others in the room.

            The other templars didn’t seem to care, save Knight-Commander Greagoir.  Greagoir and Irving both stood watch with Cullen over Sha’s diminutive form, waiting with bated breath for any sign of her progress.  Carroll had managed to convince the rest of the templars in attendance that Cullen was only interested because it was to be his task to put the blade to the mage should she fail.  Bored, they stood in a small cluster near the wall, talking and joking in hushed tones. 

            “No,” Irving answered him softly.  “Her body is reacting to something in the Fade, not to a physical discomfort,” the First Enchanter told him. 

            “Is she…,” Cullen paused, swallowing nervously, “is she facing the demon now?”

            Brow furrowed in concentration, Irving finally gave his head a sharp shake.  “No, not yet.  It’s only been 20 minutes since her Harrowing has begun.  It would be unthinkable that she finish so quickly,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his grey beard. 

            “We could be here well into the dawn,” Greagoir said aloud, concerned eyes never leaving Shattered’s face.

           

            _“You’ve finally arrived,”_ the rage demon’s voice rumbled forth, deep and gravely as it regarded Shattered with its fiery gaze.  _“Did Mouse lead you on a merry adventure before your demise?”_   It grinned at her, mouth a gaping maw of lava and embers sending a quivering worm of doubt into Sha’s mind. 

            “Not much of one,” she answered, surprise widening her eyes that her voice sounded so much more confident than she felt.  “Honestly, he was a bit of a pest.”

            A twisted, mockery of a laugh rumbled out of the demon.  _“It does not matter.  You won’t be leaving here,”_ it told her.  _“Soon, I will be looking at the world through your eyes.  You shall be mine!”_   It snarled, leaping forward at her as it summoned wisps to help attack her.

            Instinct saved her more than anything.  Without even thinking, Shattered flung a hand up, the Cone of Cold flinging effortlessly outward, catching the rage demon firmly in its grasp.  Whirling around, she sent an energy bolt from the tip of her staff at the nearest wisp, surprise gripping her all over again at the resonance of power she felt flowing between her and the staff.  Mind wandering distractedly to the time she had travelled to Redcliffe with Cullen, she wished she’d had this kind of staff when she was fighting the darkspawn. 

            The wisps fell easily as Sha turned on them one by one.  A Stonefist here, a Winter’s Grasp there, and she turned back to face the demon just as it broke free from her Cone of Cold, roaring defiantly as it charged toward her.  Twirling the staff in front of her, Shattered slammed it blade first to the ground, a touch of pride curving the corners of her lips upward as the demon was caught in the shockwave and tossed to the ground.

            The rage demon leapt upward, surging forward, arms swinging wildly at the mage.  Back stepping, Sha stumbled over a bump in the terrain; it was all the opening the rage demon needed.  Single minded in its determination, the demon leapt at her, flaming fist connecting with her cheek and sending the mage reeling. 

            Shattered gasped in surprise and pain, the sizzling of her cheek burning filling the air.  Tightening her grip on the staff, Sha swung upward and felt a solid thunk as the head of her staff connected with the side of the demon’s face.

            It shrieked, the cool blue of the focusing crystal blazing blindingly bright as it froze the demon into a living statue of ice.  Fighting to stay on her feet, Shattered leaned against the staff, supporting herself with it just to stay upright.  She glared at the rage demon, breath huffing in exhausted gasps.  Forcing herself upright, Sha flipped the weapon around blade first and gripped it tightly with both hands.  Raising the staff over her head, she clenched her teeth in a determined grimace and swung downward.

            A relieved satisfaction filled her as the demon shattered, bits of ice exploding outward from the impact to scatter around the clearing. 

            “You did it,” Mouse said in awe.  “I can’t believe you actually did it.”  Shattered raised an eyebrow at him, feeling weary from the effects of the battle.  “Well, I mean, I always thought you could,” he backtracked, “but you actually did it!”  His form shimmered, the mouse unfolding into a man.

            “Yes, well, I have a lot to live for,” she grimaced.  While being in the Fade might give a mage an extra power boost from being in direct contact with the source of their power, it also left them feeling more drained than normal after using their magic.  Mouse leering at her was making her skin crawl; Sha didn’t like that she was still here after having vanquished the demon.  Here with another demon, barely able to stand from exhaustion.  The look Mouse was giving her made her feel like a tasty morsel. 

            “You could help me, you know,” he told her slyly, eyes glittering as he gazed at her through his lashes.  “There may be a way for me to leave here, to get a foot hold outside.  You just have to want to let me in.”

            Panic dumped fresh adrenaline into Shattered’s tired body.  Hands gripping the shaft of her staff, Shattered slid a foot backward for support, assuming a fighting stance.  “Not on your life,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

            “Oh I don’t really mean you,” Mouse smiled soothingly.  “You could get some other mage alone, convince them to help me,” his eyes glittered dangerously at her, leaving Shattered feeling like a snake had just crawled across her flesh.  “Or,” a single stride and Mouse was standing within inches of Shattered, he reached out a hand, placing the palm flat against her belly, “you could let me into this little one.”

            “No!”  Shattered’s shriek reverberated through the Fade.  She jumped back, swinging the staff, blade first, wildly in front of her. 

            Mouse snarled, a hand pressed to his face as he glared at her through one eye.  Panting, Shattered glared at the demon.  “You will not have her,” she said roughly, her fatigue forgotten. 

            “We shall see,” Mouse snarled at her, and then smirked; taking his hand away from his face, revealing a hanging strip of skin Shattered had inadvertently sliced open.  An eye, the eye that should’ve been part of his face, was in that piece of dangling flesh, blinking, unconcerned that it was no longer attached to the face it belonged in.

            Eyes locked to the purple flesh exposed by the torn skin, Shattered stumbled backwards.  

            “What are you,” she whispered, shock written clearly across her features. 

            _“At last,”_ a deep voice rumbled from Mouse, _“the act is over.  I no longer have to masquerade as a weak simpleton.”_   Mouth grinning, Mouse reached up and gripped the edge of the sliced skin, pulling it away like a banana peel, sloughing it off as the demon inside was revealed. 

            Shattered’s mouth gaped open as she stared up at the pride demon before her.  Feeling from the real world was starting to return, she could sense the hard floor beneath her shoulders.  The Harrowing was complete; she was starting to lose her connection to the Fade.  Trembling slightly, Sha held the staff in front of her, hoping she would be pulled back to reality before something happened she wouldn’t be able to stop; the pride demon was far too powerful for her in the current, weakened state she was in.

            _“Simple killing is a warrior’s job,”_ the demon told her, taking a step forward.  _“The true dangers of the Fade are preconceptions.  Blind trust,”_ he grinned, finger length razor sharp teeth sending a frozen panic racing through Shattered’s veins as she gazed up at the pride demon rolling its shoulders.  _“Pride.”_   It took another step closer, Shattered could smell the candles from the Harrowing chamber.  _“Keep your wits about you mage,”_ it told her, clawed hand reaching toward her head as she stood frozen in place, _“true tests, never end.”_

            Shattered sat up, trembling and screaming on the floor of the Harrowing chamber.  Wild eyed, her gaze darted around at the three men standing over her.  Breath coming in short panicked gasps, Sha readied herself to fight, hand searching the floor beside her for a weapon.

            “Shattered,” Cullen said, hesitantly, as he removed his helm.

            Sobbing in recognition, Sha threw herself at the templar, arms wrapped tightly around his neck.  Running his hand soothingly over her back, Cullen looked questioningly at the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter. 

            “She needs rest,” Irving told them gravely.  Quietly, he worked the simple magic of a sleeping spell, letting it settle on the young mage so that she sagged against Cullen limply. 

            “Take her back to her bunk in the Apprentice quarters,” Greagoir directed him roughly.  “Then get yourself some rest.  She’ll sleep through till morning.”  With that, the Knight-Commander turned briskly on his heel, jerking his head for the other templars to follow him, leaving Cullen alone with the First-Enchanter. 

            Rubbing at his eyes wearily, Irving offered a tired smile.  “She did well,” he said aloud.  “Anyone who…cared…for her, would be proud.”  Moving slowly over to the stairway leading from the chamber, Irving looked back over his shoulder at the templar, Sha draped lightly across his arms, her head leaning against his chest.  “She’s such a burden to carry,” he said gravely.  “One could hardly fault you for taking your time in carrying her down all these stairs.”

            Cullen was about to protest, but Irving was already gone.  Looking down at Sha as she slept peacefully in his arms, it finally sunk in that this was possibly the last time he would have the freedom to simply gaze into her face.

            Irving was right.  He should take his time getting her back to her bunk.


	12. My Friend

#  12 – My Friend

 

            Sighing, Cullen gently lowered Sha onto her empty bed.  He stared down at her for a moment before pulling his gauntlet off to reach out and touch her soft skin.  It felt as though his heart was breaking, he decided.  From now on, she would be like every other mage, and he, just another templar.  His breath hitched as he thought of one of his fellows, leering at Sha as she dozed off in the library, book open in front of her. 

            He really didn’t think he could take it. 

            Leaning low over Shattered’s bed, Cullen closed his eyes, breathing in the distinct smell of raspberries with a hint of lyrium.  It was likely left over from the Harrowing ritual, but he still filed it away, knowing this may be the last chance he ever had to be this close.  Brushing a few strands of her hair back over her ear, Cullen softly pressed his lips to Sha’s mouth, letting out a whimper at the touch that turned to a sob.  Pulling back, Cullen wiped at his eyes, brushing tears from his cheeks.  It was too much, the pain, like a blade fresh from the blacksmith’s forge had been thrust through his heart.

            I have to go, Cullen thought, the need to get away from her side overwhelming him.  He couldn’t bear to look at her anymore, knowing that whatever it was they had could be no more.  Finding a scrap of paper, he scribbled the message that she was to see the First Enchanter as soon as she woke.  He slipped the scrap onto the pillow next to her head before looking down at her once more, taking a ragged breath. 

            “Goodbye, my love,” he said quietly, before turning to flee the Apprentice Quarters. 

            Dark eyes glittered from the shadows next to a window as the curtains rustled slightly.  A robed figure slunk forward, slippered feet barely making a whisper on the stone floor. 

            “Oh, this is just too delicious,” a voice whispered quietly into the dark, pearly white teeth flashing as the scribbled note disappeared from Shattered’s pillow.

             A chuckle ghosted through the darkness between the rows of sleeping apprentices as the figure drifted away from Shattered’s bed to blend in with the shadows.

           

            Cullen rushed down the hall, a sick feeling churning through his stomach just under the gaping black hole he was sure had taken up residence in his chest where his heart should've been.  Bursting through the solid oak door leading to the wing sectioned off for templar quarters, he drew up short.  There, leaning back against Cullen's door while sitting on the floor in breeches and a linen shirt, was Carroll.  He grinned as he looked up to see Cullen standing there, reaching for a dark, glass bottle on the floor next to him as he moved to stand. 

            "Bout time you got here," he said with an easy smile.  "Was sure you’d lost your way."  He raised the bottle.  "Been saving this for a special occasion," he said, "figured surviving your first time as the chopper was as good as any.  Got it last festival at Redcliffe," his chest puffed slightly in pride.     

            Checking to make sure they were alone in the hall, Carroll leaned in close, whispering, "Even had Godwin add a snip of the good stuff."  Carroll chuckled as he rocked back on his heels, a grin on his face as though he'd just shared a good joke. 

            Cullen inwardly cringed, trying to keep a neutral look on his face.  The smell of lyrium already surrounded Carroll; he must've had his weekly dose recently.  Cullen could hardly stand the stuff as it was.  Even if he were feeling better, it was doubtful he would share in Carroll's method of celebration.  Not that Carroll should've been into it as much as he was, the man had barely been a templar a year longer than Cullen and was already showing symptoms of being a touch lyrium addled. 

            "Was beginning to think maybe you got lost on your way to the Apprentice Quarters," he continued, "thought I would have to drink this whole thing myself."

            "I'm afraid you'll need to drink it alone anyway," Cullen replied.  He sighed, shoulders sagging slightly.  "I'm just...I'm really tired, okay?"  Cullen glanced to the side, not really wanting to see the crestfallen look that came over Carroll's face.  "I just want to turn in, get some sleep," he finished. 

            "Oh," Carroll paused, chewing on his lip slightly.  He offered a grin, shrugging.  "More for me, then, I guess," he said with a smile.  "Get some sleep then," Carroll called, waving over his shoulder as he moved off to go to his room. 

            Feeling momentarily guilty for the deception, Cullen stood, hand on his door, as he watched Carroll moving down the hallway.  Maker, please forgive me, he thought.  Even knowing the truth, Carroll wasn't likely to hold a grudge, but the man couldn't keep a secret to save his life. 

            Pushing into the cool dark of his room, Cullen pulled his armor off, dropping the pieces haphazardly around his room as the aching pit in his chest threatened to consume him.  Falling face down onto his bed, Cullen buried his head in his pillow to stifle the sobs that jerked through his body.  It was all over, she was out of his reach now.  The Knight-Commander had been very clear that once Shattered passed her Harrowing, there could be no more contact between them.  No more days in their garden, sharing a picnic and working the land.  No more trips alone, just the two of them away from the Circle.  No more watching over her as she dozed off in the library studying late at night.  Shuddering, Cullen bit his pillow to stifle the cries he couldn't seem to stop. 

            His memories taunted him, images of Sha flashing through his mind.  Her smile, as she tentatively looked up to him, brushing stray hair behind her ear.  Her brow furrowed as she puzzled over a difficult spell, her skin glinting softly in the candlelight.  Her soft giggle as a worm slithered across her palm while they dug rows for new plants in the garden.  Groaning, Cullen rolled onto his back to stare up into the darkness.  Wiping at his eyes, he let out a shuddering breath, his mind still filled with _her_.  If he thought about it hard enough, he could feel her light touch, ghosting across his skin as she reached hesitantly down his stomach, touching him carefully, intimately. 

            Groaning, Cullen gave himself up to the feeling, the fantasy of her being with him this one last time.  The rough skin of his fingers followed the path of Shattered's phantom touch as it travelled across his abdomen, moving lower to gently trace through the short curls just above his cock that was slowly twitching to life.  Pushing his grief and pain aside, Cullen let his hand firmly grasp his member, pulling it slightly as it thickened.  His mouth pulled into a grim line as he took a shuddering breath, wiping at his eyes with his other hand.  This was something Greagoir could not take from him, could not deny him.  No matter what orders he was under, he would always be able to call on his memories of her, they could not wipe those from his mind as if their time together had never happened. 

            Sobs turned to low moans as Cullen ran his hand the length of his manhood, thumb brushing over the head while Shattered's small pink tongue darted out to taste him in his mind.  Using the bead of moisture he found at the tip to lubricate his palm, Cullen licked his lips and started to stroke himself. 

            Hand moving faster as his breath quickened, Cullen drew on his memories, grasping at her touch, her taste, the feel of her soft skin pressed against his.  Tingles shot down his spine like lightning, prickling across his skin as they traveled through him.  With each thought, he pumped into his hand, pressing his hips up, then drawing back till the ridge threatened to pull through the circle of his fingers.  Tightening his grip, the templar pushed upward, imagining Shattered’s tight center wrapped around him, milking his length until the tight pressure in his loins was nearly painful.  Clenching his teeth against crying out, Cullen found his peak, hips jerking and twitching as release washed over him.

            It only served to draw another sob from the man as he lay there, rough hands brushing at the mess on his stomach.  The momentary pleasure he’d gotten from lapsing into memory had only served to reinforce his loss, leaving a hollow, empty feeling where satisfaction should’ve been. 

            Giving himself up to despair and exhaustion, Cullen turned his face into his pillow.  Not even bothering to wipe the fresh tears from his cheeks, the templar sent a silent prayer to the Maker that Shattered wouldn’t haunt his dreams. 

           

            Something was very wrong.  It was the first thing that popped into Sha’s mind as she fought to wake, blinking her eyes rapidly to try to clear her vision.  Something was wrong…and she didn’t have a clue what it was.  With a gasp, her eyes went wide and her hand darted to her belly.  Brow furrowed, Sha probed gently with her magic, only relaxing with a sigh when she was satisfied that the demon hadn’t made it into the baby growing inside her before she’d woke from the Fade. 

            Smiling, she lay her head down, hand still laying protectively on the small bulge, fingers splayed open.  It still wasn’t noticeable, she was sure, and likely wouldn’t be yet for another month or two at least.  Eventually, she would have to tell Cullen, she knew, but the longer she could keep her condition a secret, the less likely the First-Enchanter and Knight-Commander were to suspect him as the father. 

            “Well, you certainly look as though you’re in a good mood.”

            Squeaking in surprise, Shattered leapt from her bed, fingers grasping empty air as she reached for her staff.

            “Easy,” Jowan laughed, holding his hands out, palm up, as Shattered took a fighting stance. 

            “Oh.”  Shattered blinked blankly at him for a moment, the last fuzziness of Irving’s sleep spell finally slipping away, leaving her with her head hanging and blushing. 

            Jowan smiled, reaching out to tousle Sha’s hair.  “My, how you’ve changed,” he said, a hint of admiration in his voice.  “Only a year ago, you would’ve been cowering at the foot of your bed if I’d startled you, not leaping up to fight.”

            Grinning sheepishly, Sha shrugged.  “Well in my defense, I did think you were a demon, come to eat me.”

            “Ha!  You’re so scrawny, no demon would consider you a meal,” he threw his head back, laughing. 

            Sha shot a quick look in Jowan’s direction, but his attention had been drawn to a pair of apprentices gossiping at the other end of the chamber.  Leaning back against her bed post, his eyes came back to rest on her. 

            “So, you’re a full on mage now, huh,” he asked softly, a slight smile playing across his lips. 

            Shattered shrugged, eyes on the floor as she rubbed a bare foot across the cold stone floor.  

            “Don’t be like that,” Jowan scolded, reaching out a hand to gently take hold of her chin, exerting a slight pressure until he had coaxed her gaze to meet his again.  A warmth shown in his eyes, and for a moment Shattered wondered why their friendship had all but dissipated over the past year. 

            “I’m sure you’ll have your Harrowing soon,” she ventured tentatively. 

            Smile faltering, the warmth drained from Jowan’s expression.  “Yes, well,” he shrugged, hand dropping to his side, “at the rate they seem intent on testing me, I’ll be an old man before they Harrow me.  I would be in danger of breaking my arm every time I cast a spell.”

            Shattered giggled, hand over her mouth at the thought of Jowan looking like Father Time, hunched over and leaning on his staff. 

            Smiling, he rolled his eyes at her.  “It wasn’t quite that funny,” Jowan told her. 

            “It was,” Sha insisted.  “You could -,” she stopped, interrupting herself with a yawn.  Blinking in surprise, she looked up at Jowan, eyes big as he guffawed.  “Now that wasn’t nearly as funny,” she sniffed. 

            “Of course it was,” he chuckled, wiping at his eyes.  “I guess whatever they had you doing really tuckered you out,” he observed.  “You’ve slept clear through till almost lunch.”

            Making a face, Shattered plopped onto her bed and searched around under the edge for the cloth, slipper like shoes she’d been wearing the night before.  “That does explain the ravenous pit where my stomach should be,” she grunted, wiggling her foot into the shoe. 

            “I’ll go see if I can scrounge up a sandwich or something for you,” Jowan winked, pushing off the bed post. 

            “I’m sure the kitchen staff wouldn’t mind if I made my own sandwich,” Shattered said, brows drawn together questioningly. 

            “Ah, yes, well,” Jowan looked sheepish, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously.  “You are, um, supposed to go see the First-Enchanter as soon as you wake,” he told her.

            “Oh.”  Shattered stopped moving, shoe half on, as she sat on the edge of her bed. 

            “My, but you are articulate today,” Jowan teased. 

            “Heh,” Sha smiled.  “Yes, well.  That was just unexpected, that’s all,” she shrugged.  “I wonder what he wants?”

            “Couldn’t really say,” Jowan shook his head.  “Just that I’ve been waiting for you to wake up for so long that I almost forgot to tell you about going to see him.”

            “So I can count on you to get that sandwich so I don’t die of starvation,” Sha grinned. 

            “Of course,” Jowan smiled slyly, eyes glittering.  “You’ll just have to owe me a favor.”

            A shiver traveled up Shattered’s spine, making her glance around suspiciously.  As quickly as it had come, the feeling was gone. 

            “You okay,” Jowan asked, concern on his face.

            “Yeah,” Sha replied quietly.  “It was nothing, I guess.  Just felt like someone had walked across my grave.”

 

 


	13. The Webs We Weave

#  13 – The Webs We Weave

 

            "So you have no idea what the First-Enchanter wants to see me about," Sha asked as she walked down the hall with Jowan.

            "None," he confirmed.  "Although, you did just pass your Harrowing," he smiled, shrugging, "maybe it's about that?"

            "I suppose," Shattered chewed on her lip thoughtfully.  "I don't recall hearing about anything special happening to mages after passing, though."

            "Yes, well, you _are_ the teacher’s pet," Jowan teased, reaching out to pull at the end of Shattered's pony tail. 

            "Oh just stop," Sha huffed, swatting his hand away while he laughed. 

            As they rounded the hallway of the upper level, Jowan came to a stop with a soft 'oh' sound.

            "What are -," Sha asked, breaking off as she looked down the hall and saw what had caught her friend's eye. 

            Cullen was standing there, fidgeting.  They would have to pass right by him to get to Irving's office.  Trepidation filled her as Sha offered a timid smile to the templar.  Everything would be different between them now.  It felt like a squirming nest of worms was writhing around in her stomach. 

            Jowan fidgeted uncomfortably next to her, scratching at the back of his neck as he shifted his feet.  "I'll, um, just let you go the rest of the way on your own, I guess," he said.  "Just," he paused, leaning in and grabbing Sha by the arm, "Come find me when you're done with Irving.  There is something I really need to talk to you about," he said.  He offered her a crooked smile.  "And I'll have your sandwich."

            "What," Sha asked, confused, but Jowan had already spun away, retreating back down the stairs toward the lower levels of the tower. 

            Blowing a breath out in exasperation, Sha faced forward.  She took a calming breath, smoothing her apprentice robes down her belly and sides before pulling her mouth into a stiff smile and moving toward the inevitable. 

            "I, uh...Hello," Cullen smiled tentatively at her, a warm look in his eye that made her heart skip a beat.  But it didn't last, as quickly as the warmth had come, it left his gaze as he cleared his throat. 

            "Hello, Ser Cullen," Sha replied softly, wishing for this moment to stretch on.  This may well be the last time she would see him, the gossamer strands of their affection twining thinly between them as they were pushed apart by their lives at the tower.  If she could've, Shattered would've cast a spell over them freezing this moment together, keeping him from telling her the words she knew he was going to say. 

            "Congratulations on your successful Harrowing," he told her, inclining his head respectfully as the rehearsed words came easily from his tongue. 

            A sadness enveloped Sha.  She brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she looked down.  So this was how it was to be between them - broken hearts and rigid formality. 

            "This is to be your new quarters," Cullen gestured to the door behind him.  "I know you are on your way to see the First Enchanter but if you like, I could show you which bed is yours."

            A small, terrible hope bloomed in Sha's chest, snapping her gaze up to meet Cullen's. 

            "I would like that," she whispered, standing as still as possible till Cullen had pushed open the door to show her inside. 

            "You, umm, you should have time later today to move your personal affects up here," he said, waving her toward the far end of the room.  Walking through the room, Sha realized it was only slightly better than the open dorm style the Apprentice Quarters had been set up in.  Each mage had their own bed instead of a bunk, and a personal dresser that doubled to section off a private space for each person inside the room.  A rueful smile quirked up the corners of Sha's mouth.  At least they now had the option of changing without being exposed to an entire roomful of eyes.  Her hand wandered to splay over the small bulge below her belly button.  Soon, she would've been found out in the Apprentice Quarters. 

            "This, umm, this is your area," Cullen broke her from her thoughts, nervously rubbing at the back of his neck. 

            Shattered moved past the templar, the playful smell of raspberries tickling his nose along with the lingering sent of lyrium from the Harrowing.  Groaning, Cullen closed his eyes, fists clenched at his sides as he battled with his will to keep from touching her.

            "Thank you, Cullen," Sha said softly after she had looked around the cubical.  She moved to stand in front of the templar, concern drawing her brows together.  "Are you okay?"

            Taking a shuddering breath, Cullen kept his eyes tightly closed.  He wasn't a strong man, he decided as he tried to keep his feelings in check.

            "Cullen?"  Shattered asked tentatively, reaching out a hand to rest it on his chest plate over the Sword of Mercy above his heart.

            Hearing the concern in her voice and feeling the slight pressure against the plate was more than his fragile control could handle.  Wrapping his arms around her slight frame, Cullen whispered Shattered's name brokenly before claiming her lips with his own. 

            Sha gave herself up to the kiss, her arms wrapping around Cullen's neck and fingers snaking into his hair.  There was desperation and sorrow in the breath they shared as they gasped into each other's mouth. 

            "We can't," Cullen whispered, his hands still pressing Sha's slim figure against his plate as his mouth pressed kisses and bites to her neck and ear. 

            "We shouldn't," she agreed breathlessly, tightly gripping Cullen's hair as she pulled his face closer to his neck.  Sha bit her lip, eyes drifting closed as she focused on the tingles sparking across her skin as his lips and tongue teased at her flesh. 

            "I can't help myself," Cullen answered, pulling back slightly to look into Sha's eyes, an intense look on his face.  She whimpered at the loss of his lips on her neck, looking up at him pleadingly.  "Do you...Would you...be...with me?  One last time," he asked hesitantly, pressing his forehead to hers. 

            "I will always want to be with you," she answered quietly, a sad smile on her face as a tear slipped from the corner of her eye to trail down her cheek. 

            Cullen's eyes snapped open, Sha's words startling him.  Looking down at her, he reached up a hand and gently brushed away her tear with an armored finger.  "And I will always love you," he answered softly. 

            Turning her cheek into his palm, Sha pressed a kiss to Cullen's gauntlet before reaching with trembling fingers to remove it.  Groaning, Cullen closed his eyes as her mouth met the bare skin of his hand, lips warm and soft as they pressed against his flesh, tongue warm and moist as she pulled one of his fingers into her mouth to suckle.  An answering throb pulled at his loins, spurring him into action.  With the quickness of familiarity, Cullen pulled the leather straps holding his armor in place, dropping it onto Shattered's bed.  Turning, Cullen fell to his knees in front of Sha, pulling her robe upward toward her waist.  Kissing gently along her thighs, Cullen worked his way up, fingers stretched around Shattered's hips to kneed gently at her bottom. 

            Breath coming in harsh gasps, Cullen hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Sha's small clothes, looking up at her for permission.  Gazing down with half lidded eyes, Sha licked her lips and nodded, unable to think beyond the trails of fire Cullen was leaving along her skin, pricking across her flesh everywhere his fingers touched. 

            Leaning forward, Cullen placed a gentle kiss above the thin strip of cloth before dragging them down over her thighs.  Guiding her, Cullen led Sha to step from the small clothes, pushing her back slightly to lean against the heavy dresser as he pulled one of her legs up over his bare shoulder.  Extending his tongue, Cullen gently flicked the tip of his tongue over the small nub nestled between Shattered's folds.  Sha's ragged gasp encouraging him, Cullen eagerly pressed forward, his tongue sliding past her folds to thrust into her tight opening. 

            Shattered cried out, fingers buried in Cullen’s curly hair as she pressed her sex against his face, rocking against his tongue in time with his thrusts.  "Please," she whimpered, feeling a tightening swirl of pleasure cascading through her loins.  "I need you," she gasped.

            Hearing Shattered's words made Cullen's already stiffened manhood ache with desire.  Quickly he stood, unclipping the buckle that would allow the templar plate skirt to slide from his waist to the floor, revealing his throbbing member.  Pulling Shattered to him, Cullen kissed her softly, allowing her to taste her own juices still on his lips.  Wrapping his fingers around her bottom, Cullen lifted Sha to him.  Her legs wrapped easily around his sides, his manhood throbbing hotly against her belly.  He stood there for a moment, Shattered's legs wrapped around him as he held her against the dresser before he moved, shifting so that the tip of his member pressed against her damp folds.

            Tightening her legs, Sha pulled herself down onto his shaft, causing Cullen to give a guttural cry.  Sha sighed, feeling his length filling her, stretching her as his member twitched inside her tight walls. 

            "You'll be the death of me," he told her in a strangled voice.  "But I would die with a smile," he told her, brushing a hand through her hair.  Wrapping his arms around her, Cullen braced his legs apart as he slowly began thrusting into Shattered's warm center.  She gasped, head thrown back as he entered her, repeatedly brushing against the spot that would send her over the edge, and so she missed the tears rolling down Cullen's cheeks. 

            Desperation feeding his actions, Cullen sped up, gliding in and out of Shattered's tight walls as he felt the tension building in his groin.  Shattered cried out as her orgasm broke like a wave over her, clamping down on Cullen's member as her body convulsed around him; it was the final push Cullen needed to reach his own peak.  With a low growl, he shuddered against her, teeth biting down on her shoulder so sharply she gasped in pain as he drew blood while his seed pumped into her warm depths. 

            Spent, Cullen stumbled backwards to sit on the edge of Shattered's bed next to the armor he had dropped there moments before.  He carefully cradled her against him, tucking her head under his chin as he squeezed his eyes shut stroking her hair with his fingers. 

            "I should get going," Shattered whispered against his chest.

            "The First Enchanter," Cullen mumbled in reply.

            "Mmhmm," she nodded, biting her lip and inhaling deeply of his scent. 

            Wiping roughly at his eyes, Cullen released Shattered so she could stand, his smile quavering as he looked up at her. 

            “Go,” he told her, voice cracking slightly with checked emotion.  Reaching out a hand, he brushed his fingertips over her face lightly.  “When next you see me, I’ll be nothing more than another templar to you,” he told her.  “Remember that.  And please,” he paused, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, “remember how I feel about you.  Be discreet with whom you choose to lay with.  For my sake.  It’s killing me, having to let you go.  I think, should I have to see you with another man, it would surely drive me insane.”  Cullen opened his eyes, offering Sha a sad smile as he looked into her solemn face.

            Fingers outstretched, Sha reached to touch Cullen’s cheek.  “You will never be just another templar to me, Cullen,” she told him softly as he turned into her delicate touch.  “You will always be the man I love.”  Taking one last shuddering breath, Sha turned away, straightening her robes.  She paused as she was about to pass from the cubical.  “Cullen?  Do you ever think of us being together?  Away from the tower, I mean.  How it would be if we both could lead normal lives,” she asked without looking back.

            Rubbing a hand tiredly over his face, Cullen looked at her back, memorizing the tilt of her head, the trembling in her voice and the stiffness in her back.  He wasn’t sure if the future would be easier or harder for them, if he told her the words he wanted to say.  But if nothing else, she had asked for the truth and that was something he would always give her. 

            “Every night.  Before I go to sleep, in my dreams, with every thought I have of you, I wish to the Maker and Andraste that we had a life, outside the tower, where we could be together,” he told her, watching as her shoulders hitched with a sharp intake of breath. 

            Sha stood for a moment, swallowing the lump in her throat and willing the tears not to fall from her eyes.  “Thank you,” she finally managed to force out in a choked whisper before fleeing the room to wander blindly in the hallway till she found a quiet corner in the library to slump down to the floor.  She stared numbly at the row of books in front of her, not seeing them as she tried to stem the flow of tears and reign in her emotions. 

           

            Cullen had harbored a small hope that Sha would look back, just once, before she’d left the room, but in the end he was rather glad she hadn’t.  He had been able to tell from the way she carried herself as she fled from him that she was feeling just as broken inside as he was, and he wasn’t sure how he would’ve reacted if she had turned around where he could see the hurt look on her face. 

            Gritting his teeth together, he began gathering his armor, cursing the Maker the whole time for the cruel game He played with their hearts.

           

            Shattered was never sure just how long she had sat, huddled in the corner.  Dimly, she remembered the First Enchanter had asked her to come to his office after she awoke and that she’d probably been awake long enough to be missed.  Wiping at her face, Sha made her way to the lavatories next to the library to splash cold water on her face. 

            “You look about half dead,” she told the pale reflection of herself in the mirror over the sink.  Critically, she looked over her drawn cheeks and porcelain white skin.  Normally, she liked the soft look her complexion gave her, but today it only served to make her look like a corpse, accentuating the dark smudges under her eyes from crying.  She sighed, swallowing against the hollow, fragile feeling of broken glass in her chest and decided she really didn’t care if she looked like death walking.  She was Harrowed, now, and all it had cost her was everything. 

            Looking down, Sha placed a protective hand over her belly where she was just starting to see the first signs of the life growing inside her.  Well, it had cost her _almost_ everything, she amended with a slight smile curving the edges of her mouth upward. 

            Thinking that if she didn’t show up soon, the First Enchanter was likely to send out a search party for his missing mage, Shattered smoothed her lavender hair back into a pony tail and ran her hands down her sides to straighten her robes.  Satisfied that she looked presentable at least, Shattered made her way from the bathrooms to the First Enchanters office.

           

            “Have you gone mad,” Greagoir looked askance at Irving as the two faced off over the First Enchanter’s desk.  “You _cannot_ be serious.”

            “I have never been more serious before in my life,” Irving answered gravely.  “Think on your own experiences,” he implored.  “After your own…circumstances, did you not wish to be away from the tower?  Away from Wynne?”  His dark brown eyes searching Greagoir’s face.  “Don’t you think it would’ve been easier, on you both, if you could’ve put some distance between each other?”

            “I...," Greagoir grunted, running a hand through his grey hair in exasperation.  "Yes, you are right of course," he conceded.  "It would've been easier if we would’ve had the option to put some distance between ourselves back then."

            "And you've always wondered what happened to the child?"

            "Yes," Greagoir agreed sadly.  "I have always wondered.  But even after becoming the Knight-Commander, I could not ask without raising suspicion."  Slumping back into the chair across from the First-Enchanter, a sudden weary expression crossed his face.  "She's just so fragile...," he trailed off.  There was really no need to go into it with Irving any more, and the Commander of the Grey who stood silently watching their conversation would have his way regardless of a First Enchanter or a Knight-Commander's feelings, as was his right.  Greagoir snorted.  All in the name of fighting the Darkspawn, as if Shattered hadn't already seen enough of them. 

            "We are speaking of the same girl I saw along the road to Redcliffe?"  Duncan's dark eyes moved thoughtfully from one man to the other. 

            Reluctantly, Greagoir confirmed it.  "Yes, the mage the First Enchanter wants to send with you to Ostagar is the very same one that you met while hunting darkspawn near Redcliffe."

            "As I recall, that girl was far from fragile," Duncan said thoughtfully.  "She took down several of the spawn by herself."

            "And was also seriously injured, if you'll recall," Greagoir retorted hotly.  

            Duncan raised his hands placatingly.  "If all goes to plan, Miss Amell won't even come into contact with the darkspawn while at Ostagar.  She'll be with the other mages, supporting the Wardens and the King's armies from the rear, as healers and ranged attackers."

            "There, you see Greagoir?  She won't be alone down there, without any friends," Irving smiled slightly.  "She'll be assisting the other mages that have already gone."

            "I do not like it," Greagoir said again.  He narrowed his eyes at Duncan.  "You _will_ look after her?"

            "Of course, Knight-Commander," the Warden Commander inclined his head. 

            "I would not see harm come to her," he pressed fiercely.

            A quick flash of bright teeth showed through Duncan's short, dark beard.  "Nor would I, Knight-Commander," he replied.  "You seem very concerned over this one mage," he noted.  "May I ask why?"

            "The Knight-Commander watches out for all those under his charge," Irving replied, trying to diffuse the tension that was growing in the room.

            "I see," Duncan took his cue from Irving, dropping the subject, but filing away the fact that Greagoir hadn't opposed any of the other mages the Warden Commander had expressed interest in.  His eyes wondered to the door and the slim figure waiting patiently there to be acknowledged.  "Gentlemen," he said, "I believe we can save this discussion for some other time.  It appears you have a visitor," Duncan directed their attention to Shattered. 

            Head bowed to hide the flush creeping up her cheeks, Sha stepped into the room, feeling the eyes of the three men on her.  "You wanted to see me, First Enchanter?"  Her voice was barely above a whisper as she stood wringing her fingers next to Irving's desk.

            "Ah, yes!  Well done, my girl," his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her, patting her back.  “I knew you'd be able to pass your Harrowing with flying colors."

            "Was there ever any doubt," Greagoir beamed at her proudly. 

            "You are now a full Mage of the Circle.  And as such, you are entitled to certain rewards," Irving told her, moving to a chest he kept along the wall of his office.  Shattered trailed after him, slightly confused as to what he was talking about, followed by Greagoir and the Grey Warden.  "Here we are then," he said, unlocking the chest and retrieving a few items from it.  Turning toward her, Irving held out the articles he'd recovered.  "It is my great pleasure to present you with the robes of a Circle Mage, a new staff, and your very own ring with the insignia of Kinloch Hold."

            Stunned, Shattered stood there, her arms full and blinking at the load Irving had thrust on her. 

            "Congratulations," Duncan remarked serenely, a slight smile curving his lips upward at the corners.

            "Oh, where are my manners?  My apologies, Duncan," Irving turned, gesturing toward the tall, dark haired man standing next to Greagoir.  "Shattered, you've heard of the Grey Wardens in your studies?"

            "Of course, First Enchanter," she inclined her head.  "They are a fighting force spread across Thedas made up of warriors and mages alike.  Everyone from kings and princes to common folk are conscripted into their ranks during times of a Blight."

            "And do you know what the Wardens fight during a Blight," Duncan asked, a predatory gleam in his eye.  

            "The darkspawn," Sha replied flatly.  It didn't escape the Warden Commander's notice that her eyes narrowed slightly as she spoke the word, her lips pressed into a thin line and her slim fingers clenched into a tight fist around her new staff. 

            "I see you remember your encounter with the darkspawn," he said mildly.  A small smile curving his lips upward as a shiver went up Shattered's spine.  The girl had no illusions as to what fighting them could be like.  That was good. 

            "You may not remember, but Duncan may have saved your life that day," Irving added. 

            "I...," a light flush rose in Shattered's cheeks.  "I'm afraid I don't recall you," she told him, looking up to meet his dark eyes.  "Ser Cullen did inform me of a Grey Warden's assistance, however.  My thanks," she bowed slightly at the waist.  "If you had not leant your aid, I would not be here today.  For that, I am eternally grateful."

            "Ah, yes.  Ser Cullen," Duncan looked to Greagoir.  "Would it be possible for me to-,"

            "No," Greagoir interrupted firmly, brows drawn down as he gave Duncan a hard look. 

            A short bark of laughter broke form Duncan, accompanied by a brief flash of bright teeth.  "Very well," he said, hands raised, palms forward in a gesture of surrender. 

            "I think that's been quite enough for Miss Amell for now," Greagoir said gruffly.  "I'm sure the girl would like something to eat and to relax now that all of her hard work has paid off."  He smiled tentatively in Sha's direction.

            "Indeed," Irving agreed, stroking his grey beard.  "You may use the rest of the day as you wish.  Of course, you have access to the libraries of the upper levels now, should you wish to familiarize yourself."  He gave her a tired smile.  "The day is yours." 

            "Might I impose upon the young lady to escort me back to the visitor's chambers?  I'm afraid I visit so rarely that I get turned around easily here," Duncan asked, thick brows raised questioningly. 

            Greagoir made a hostile sound in his throat, but was cut off by Irving.  "It is up to Shattered," he said.

            Nervously, Shattered looked from Greagoir to Irving to Duncan.  "It would be an honor," she said finally, smiling weakly as she gestured for him to precede her from the First Enchanter's office. 

            Smiling slyly, Duncan bowed his head respectfully to both men.   "Gentlemen," he said, “I will take my leave of you for now.  Let us continue our discussion later after I've had a short rest."  With that he turned, leading the way into the hall.

            Shattered looked at Irving and Greagoir, shifting the robe and staff she carried over her arm.  There was a tension around her eyes as though she was about to burst into tears; Irving marveled at the changes in her.  Not even a year ago, the tears would've already been flowing if she thought she had misbehaved in some manner.  Now she stood looking to them, a new strength keeping the tears at bay. 

            "Go," Irving told her softly.  "You've done nothing wrong, child.  See the Warden Commander to his room, and then go on about your day."  He smiled kindly at her as he watched the relief enter her eyes, relaxing the tight way she had been holding her shoulders.  Giving a brisk nod, Sha hurried from his office to meet Duncan standing in the hallway waiting for her.   

            "That _bastard_ ," Greagoir spat as soon as they moved away from the door.  "That manipulative son of a _bitch_."

            "My, my," Irving stated mildly, eyebrows slightly raised, "I don't think I've heard you use language like that since we were young men," he said, stroking thoughtfully at his beard. 

            "He did that on purpose and you just let him," Greagoir accused, stabbing a finger in the direction of the guest quarters. 

            "What?"

            "Duncan!"  Greagoir was just short of roaring in anger as he said the name.  "He already knows what she's capable of, maybe even far better than we; he's seen the aftermath of her battle with the darkspawn and that was months ago before her Harrowing.  She's even stronger now, and he knows it," Greagoir stomped around Irving's office in frustration, raking his fingers through his hair and huffing. 

            Settling back into his chair, Irving steepled his fingers in front of his face and sighed.  "What would you have me do?  Forbid he see her?  Keep her locked in her room till he leaves?"

            "Yes!"  Greagoir sighed, slumping down into a chair across from Irving.  "No," he admitted, "we can't do that.  We can," he added quickly, "Just not to her."

            "No, not to her," Irving agreed.  "Confining her in such a way would only cause her pain.  Besides, Duncan is already aware of her.  He will only be taking her to Ostagar for a short time when he could conscript her at any time and there is nothing we could do about it.  Plus it would only pique his interest more that we were trying to keep him from her."  Irving sighed.  "No, we must wait, and hope that he doesn't decide to keep her with the Grey Wardens."

            "You and I both know that this whole getting lost bit is just an act," Greagoir twirled his hand in the air flippantly.  "It was a ruse to be able to speak with Shattered alone."

            "I know," Irving sighed again.  "We can only hope that while speaking with her, Duncan will realize that Sha is unsuited to the task of fighting and would not be an asset worthy enough to be conscripted into the Wardens."

            Greagoir snorted.  "Considering it was your bloody fool idea that she go to Ostagar, you are certainly doing a lot of hoping over there."

            "You know my reasons for wanting her to have time away from the tower; I stand by that decision."

            "Let's just hope it doesn't bite you in the arse," Greagoir murmured.  "You do know that right this very second he's telling her some sob story about how the Wardens would be so much more independent if they had a healer of their own?"  He asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.  "He's _trying_ to recruit her, convince her that it's what she wants, what’s best for her."

            "Yes, well," Irving shrugged, "I imagine that he'll have the next few weeks at Ostagar to do that anyway."

           

            "The last blight was four hundred years ago," Shattered asked tentatively as she walked with Duncan down the curved corridor of the tower.  He hadn't said a single word to her since they'd left the First Enchanter's office, and it was unnerving her a little.

            "Yes," he answered promptly, "Just a little more than that, actually," there was a brief flash of white as he smiled down at her.  "That was the Fourth Blight, where the Archdemon Andoral led the darkspawn across the Anderfels before being slain by the Grey Warden Garahel at the Battle of Ayesleigh."

            "Andoral," Shattered repeated in surprise.  "Like one of the Old Gods of the Tevinters?"

            "Not 'like' the Old Gods, I'm afraid," Duncan said grimly.  "It is believed that the Archdemons that lead the spawn during a blight are _actually_ the Old Gods of the Tevinters, corrupted and twisted like the darkspawn themselves until they are consumed with nothing but the unending need to bring death and destruction to all things living."  Duncan shrugged.  "But who can really know what goes on in the mind of even a darkspawn, let alone an Archdemon."

            Shattered paused, swallowing.  "This is, umm, this is the visitor's quarters," she announced, her voice shaking. 

            "So it is," Duncan remarked mildly as he looked at the door.  He turned back toward Shattered.  "I thank you for your assistance," he said with a smile.  "It was very nice to meet you."

            "They'll let me go?  With you, to Ostagar," Sha asked hesitantly.  "To fight against the darkspawn?"

            "Possibly," he told her.  "But I get the feeling they would rather you didn’t ‘fight’," he told her truthfully.  "The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter were pretty adamant that I allow you to remain away from the battles, healing the wounded."

            Biting her lip Sha nodded.  Even now that she was Harrowed, those two were still looking out for her.  It made her heart ache and a tear prick at the corner of her eye.  "Is it far?  To Ostagar..."

            Duncan smiled.  "No, it is only a few days past Redcliffe."

            "Would you mind...telling me more...of the Grey Wardens?  While we travel?"

            A satisfied smile crossed Duncan's face.  "Of course, I would be delighted to tell you more of the Grey Wardens."

            "Thank you," Sha smiled tentatively before turning to go to her room. 

            Duncan watched as Shattered turned, making her way down the curved hall of the Circle before the smile faded from his face and he sighed wearily.  Apparently, he was only going to be able to get one half of the duo he’d met along the road, but that was better than nothing.  The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter where hell bent on separating the two, and the Wardens’ position wasn’t strong enough for him to risk attempting the Right of Conscription on both of them. 

            Wiping a hand over his face, Duncan turned and entered the guest quarters; he still wanted to look over the list of names he had noted earlier as possibles to aid in the battle at Ostagar.  He would simply have to keep his eyes open; perhaps an opportunity would present itself.

           

            Sighing, Shattered slipped her new mage robes over her head, smoothing them down her sides till they fell past her ankles to whisper along the floor as she walked.  She turned, eyeing herself in the small mirror hung on the wall next to the bed.  The plush fabric was clinging to her slim frame.  It wouldn’t be long before her secret was out.  She sighed, pushing a hand through her hair in frustration. 

            “Now, don’t tell me you forgot about me already,” Jowan’s voice startled her as he peaked around the end of her dresser.

            “No,” Sha smiled at him.  “I was just getting changed.  What do you think?”  She gave a little twirl, showing off her new robes.

            “Very nice,” he looked her over approvingly.  “Come with me,” he jerked his chin toward the door, “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

            Sha’s stomach rumbled, making her laugh as it reminded her of the promise of food earlier.  “As long as you’ve brought me something to eat, it’s a deal,” she smiled.

            “Of course, my Lady,” he mocked, bowing as he extended his hand to her politely. 

            Snorting, Sha moved past into the hallway.  “So, what is it you wanted to talk about?”

            “Not here,” Jowan whispered.  “I’d rather we go someplace more…private,” he pushed open the chapel doors, moving through the main room to an alcove on the side.  Reaching into his robe’s pockets, he pulled out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.  Giving a sheepish grin at its slightly squashed state, he offered it to Sha. 

            “I’m too hungry to be picky,” she grinned, pealing the paper back and taking a hearty bite. 

            “Well, you know I’ve met someone, right,” Jowan asked, wringing his hands together as he looked over Sha’s shoulder.

            “Neria mentioned it,” Shattered mumbled around a mouthful of food as she continued to stuff her face. 

            “Yes, well, I know it’s long overdue, but I would like you to meet Lily,” he smiled, gesturing forward a Chantry Initiate that had entered the alcove behind them. 

            Shattered choked in surprise, shocked that the two would risk the wrath of the Templars and the Chantry.  “That’s not allowed,” she spluttered. 

            “I know, I know.  It’s forbidden!  Lily was given to the chantry and isn’t allowed to have…relations with men,” Jowan cried, “but I love her and she loves me.  We dream of having a life together.”

            Shattered opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut with a click as she thought of her own situation.  If it could happen to her, why couldn’t it happen to him?  Maybe she should hear him out.  “I don’t think you’re telling me about this by accident?”

            “Please,” Lily whispered, “we have something important to ask of you.”

            “Well, you know how I’ve been wondering when they’ll give me my Harrowing,” he asked, brows raised.  At Sha’s quick nod, he continued, “I’ve found out why they’re so reluctant,” he told her, voice tight with repressed emotion.  “They think I’m a blood mage!  They’re going to make me Tranquil!”  Jowan threw up his hands, fear across his features as Lily patted his back soothingly. 

            “You can’t be serious,” Shattered replied, taking another bite of the sandwich.  “No one could possibly see you as a blood mage,” she said around her mouthful. 

            “It’s true,” Lily broke in.  “I happen to see the documents on the Knight-Commander’s desk while I was cleaning.”

            “Don’t let them do it,” Jowan pleaded.  “I don’t want to end up like Owain in the stock room!  He’s like a living zombie,” Jowan shuddered.  “All emotionless and lifeless, like a husk!  All breathing and moving but not really living!  The Rite of Tranquility takes away everything that makes you you!  It would take away my dreams, my hopes, fears, even my love for Lily!  All gone,” he clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling a sob.

            “Give us our word that you will aid us,” Lily said, keeping a steady gaze, “and we will tell you what we intend.”

            “Oh, I’m sure I could speak to Irving.  I’m sure he could put a stop to this blood mage nonsense,” Sha said, taking another bite. 

            “We’re going to do the only thing that we can to get out of this,” Jowan said.  “We’re going to escape!  Destroy my phylactery and leave so they can’t track me down.  We need your help, there’s no way we can do this on our own.”

            The sandwich turned to ash in Shattered’s mouth; she suddenly regretted having had it.  The dry click as Sha swallowed sounded loud in the silence that had fallen over the three standing in the Chapel alcove. 

            “I know it’s a lot to ask,” Jowan said quietly as he observed the stricken look on Shattered’s face, “but this is a life we’re talking about.  My life!”  He slapped his chest as he looked at her pleadingly.  “Help us!  Help me,” his eyebrows drew together, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

            Turning, Shattered moved away from Jowan and Lily, steps stilted and wooden. 

            “Shattered, please,” he called after her.  “Just think how you would feel if it were you.”

            Sha paused, swallowing against the bile rising in her throat.  “I need to think about this,” she said in a shaky voice, and then left the alcove.

            Lily watched her go forlornly.  “She won’t help us.”

            “Oh, she will,” Jowan replied confidently.  His eyes glittered as he smiled down at the girl standing next to him.  “She may not think so yet, but she will help us.”

           

            Shattered felt numb as she walked through the corridor, her mind still reeling from what Jowan had asked her to do.  He was already suspected of being a maleficar, and had asked her to aid him in becoming an apostate.  If they were caught…she didn’t want to think about what would happen.  Her hand traveled down to cover the new life growing inside her.  She didn’t want to think about what would happen to Cullen if the child’s father was ever discovered. 

            Taking a deep breath, Sha leaned against the corridor wall, hands clasped behind her back as she looked at the floor.  Cullen had admitted that he thought of the life they could have, if only they weren’t confined to the Tower, restricted by the laws of the Chantry.  Jowan was only asking for the very opportunity she herself dreamed of.

            Feeling sick to her stomach, Shattered pushed off the wall and made her way back to the Chantry.

           

            “Oh!  You’ve returned,” Lily gasped when Sha entered the alcove.  “Have you made a decision?”  Lily stood, wringing her hands together as she looked hopefully at Sha.  Jowan’s eyes glittered as he watched the two.

            Shattered nodded, swallowing nervously. 

            “Yes,” she said, voice cracking.  “I’ve decided to help you.”

            Crying out in joy, Lily jumped forward, wrapping her arms around Sha in a tight hug. 

            Maker, help me, Sha thought as she suffered through the embrace.


	14. The Uncomfortable Truth

#  14 – The Uncomfortable Truth

 

Bethany stood in the doorway of the Hawke house looking out over the front porch and wringing her hands together nervously.  It was a modest holding, a cozy home just big enough for the family with a field their father, Malcolm, had worked in through the summer tending the rows of corn they were to sell at the fall festival.  He would come in at dusk, shirt wet with sweat and dirt ground into his hands so far he smelled of earth even after washing, but there was always a smile on his face.  Wistfully, Beth thought of their father; his kindly smile, the gentleness of his touch, the warmth of his magic as it spread through her when she'd fallen from the apple tree and broken her arm.  She wondered, as she looked out at her sister polishing the great sword Soul Eater - Trav's pride and joy, the one thing she'd been able to make with Malcolm, a perfect joining of metalworking and magic - would the elder Hawke sibling be able to help?  Sighing, Bethany stepped out into the warm summer air, the gentle light of the fading sun glinting off of Soul Eater.

"Sister," Beth called tentatively, "Might I have a word with you?"

With a final flourish of her polishing rag, Travisty tilted the great sword upright, leaning it against the porch railing next to the step she was sitting on.

"What can I do for you, baby sister," she asked cautiously.  It was an old argument, and Trav could practically smell it coming a mile away.

"It's...Carver," Bethany started, casting a reproachful look at Trav as her sister responded with a snort. 

"You know as well as I that there is nothing to be done with Carver," Travisty answered dryly. 

"Please, you must talk to him," she said, stepping toward her sister as Trav unfolded her lanky frame from the step.

"I can no more _talk_ to Carver than I can cast a fireball," Trav grimaced, running a hand through her lavender hair.

"He looks up to you, you know?  He always wanted to be more like you," she waved a hand over Trav's length.  "More like father," her voice dropped low at the end.

"That was a low blow, Beth," Trav answered, lips drawn into a thin line. 

"I know, Trav.  I'm sorry," Bethany answered, hugging her arms around herself.  It had once been a fond joke around the Hawke dinner table that Travisty was actually the first born son; she was so much like Malcolm Hawke.  Broad shoulders and thick arms led down to a trim waist and muscular thighs coupled with a hair so dark it gave off a lavender sheen when the light hit it, a color their mother swore was a throwback to the Amell side.  No one had mentioned the resemblance since Malcolm had gotten sick two winters ago, wasting away before their eyes from something not even magic could save him from. 

The whole family had been affected by the death of the patriarch.  Their mother, Leandra, becoming more withdrawn and overprotective of Carver, saying he was the last one who could carry on the Hawke family name.  Carver becoming even more withdrawn and sullen, if that were possible, while tension between him and Trav sky rocketed; the favored child versus the inadequate son.  Trav...well, Travisty threw herself into working with the militia and running the forge.  She would drag herself home well after the other Hawkes had turned in with barely enough energy left to strip out of her work clothes before falling into the dreamless sleep of the exhausted, Soul Eater resting at her side.  It was all Bethany could do to hold them together, to get them to act like a family. 

"It's just...Carver wants to be so like you," Beth said, eyes lingering on her sisters great sword, the sword Malcolm had made with Travisty at the smithy where she worked.  With Trav's talent and strength, coupled with a powerful enchantment from their father, Soul Eater practically had a life of its own.  Supposedly, the sword would ‘grow’ with her; the stronger she got, the stronger it got.  Bethany had no reason to doubt it – she’d seen Soul Eater slice through lesser blades like a hot knife through butter. 

“It’s not me he’s trying to be like,” Travisty answered her bitterly. 

            “I know,” Bethany sighed, running a hand through her thick brown tresses.  “It’s just that with father gone, it’s you he looks to as a role model.  Can’t you please tell him to stay home while you go to Ostagar?”  Bethany looked pleadingly at her sister, dark eyes large and beseeching. 

            “Because when I talk to him, it is not like talking to a rock at all,” Trav snorted, shaking her head.

            “I know he can be exasperating, but mother is beside herself with worry.”

            “Of course,” Travisty’s eyes turned dark, “She’s absolutely terrified for her little boy and not at all for me,” a brittle smile crossed her lips.

            “It’s not like that,” Beth told her quietly, eyes downcast.  “Carver is..,” she paused, face twisting slighting into a grimace. 

            “All she has left of father,” Trav finished for her in a whisper.  “The all-important son, the heir to the Hawke family name.”  A broken laugh passed through Trav’s lips.  “And me,” she asked, gesturing down at her broad frame, “I’m built like a damn ox, the daughter that will never find a man because most of them are afraid of her”  Trav shook her head ruefully, hands planted on her hips as she kicked at the grass in front of the porch steps.  “Why should she worry about me?”

            “Sister, don’t,” Bethany scolded.  “Mother loves you just like the rest of us.”

            “I know,” Travisty sighed, ruffling a hand through her short hair so the edges stuck up at crazy angles.  “It’s just, ever since dad passed,” she shrugged, “mom will barely even look at me.”

            “It’s only because you look so much like dad,” Bethany smiled, her eyes soft as she stretched up to smooth Travisty’s hair. 

            “Yeah, I know,” Trav sighed.  She reached up, grabbing Beth’s hand and pulling it down to press a quick kiss to her fingers.  “I doubt I’ll be able to talk him out of coming with me,” she frowned.  Brows pulled together, Trav raised her eyes to meet Bethany’s.  “I promise you I will look after him,” she said sincerely. 

            “I know,” Bethany’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled up at Travisty.  “Soul Eater will watch your back, and you’ll watch Carvers.”

            “Exactly,” Trav smiled, pulling her sister into a tight hug.

           

            "You want me to _what!?"_   Shattered stared wide eyed at Lily. 

            "How did you think we were going to get Jowan's phylactery," Lily blinked at Sha.  "It's not as if they'll simply hand it over if we walk up and ask for it." 

            Flushing, Shattered lowered her eyes, biting her lips.  "I'm not sure," she fumbled, shrugging.  "I just thought...Maybe you needed me as a look out or something," she bit her lip.

            "The door must be prepared by a spoken code; I will take care of that.  I've managed to get an unsuspecting Templar to tell it to me.  Then it must be touched by the mana of a harrowed mage," she nodded in Sha's direction.  "That will be your job." 

            Shattered nodded numbly.  "That's it," she asked, feeling a wave of relief wash through her.  "I just have to touch the door and it will be over?"

            "Not quite," Lily said, making a face.  "That is only the first part of opening the door."

            "There is a...lock," Jowan informed her, running a hand through his hair.  "It requires two keys, one is with Irving, and the other belongs to Knight-Commander Greagoir."

            Shattered's mouth dropped open as she gaped up at Jowan.  "We are _not_ going to steal from the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander," she said emphatically.  "I am sorry but I will not do that for you," she said backing away from them. 

            "Oh no," Jowan jumped forward, grabbing her lightly by the shoulder.  "Please, no Sha, that is not what we are asking," he searched her face, his eyes pleading.  "Just listen to what we have to say."

            Eyes wide with fear, Shattered looked into Jowan's face for a moment before slowly nodding and allowing him to pull her back closer. 

            “It’s no secret you can’t use fire spells,” a small smile curled up the corners of Jowan’s lips.  “And me,” he shrugged, holding his arms out.  “I’m pretty much bad at all types of magic.”

            Eyeing him suspiciously, Sha frowned.  “What are you getting at,” she asked cautiously. 

            “Well, we were thinking,” Lily started, wringing her hands together and glancing sideways at Jowan, “that since you’re a mage now, you could…access various items that we might be able to use to escape.”

            “And this would avoid having to steal the First Enchanter or Knight-Commander’s keys?”

            “That’s right,” Lily gave a curt nod.  “You could requisition a rod of fire from Owain, the quartermaster who controls the stock of magical items here at the Circle.  We’ll get one of those and use it to burn through the lock on the door to the phylactery room.”  Lily offered a bright smile; Sha felt her panic ratcheting up a notch, like a rat it raced around the back of her mind.

            There was no way a simple rod of fire would be able to burn through a lock that an entire tower full of mages hadn’t already torn down.  Her eyes narrowed as she thought of it.  “If all you need is the rod, why do you need me?”

            “Owain won’t release a rod of fire to an apprentice,” Jowan said.  “Besides, we need you to charge the door with your mana,” he grinned.

            Looking down, Shattered twisted her fingers together.  “So you need me to get the rod,” she asked.  She stood, fidgeting for a moment after receiving Jowan’s nod.  “Fine,” she said finally, blowing out a breath as she tried to calm the beast gnawing away at her brain.  She gave a shaky smile.  “Wish me luck,” she said, turning from them.

            “Luck,” Jowan grinned.  He could practically taste his freedom and already it was sweet, like a fine wine had touched the tongue of a man who had crossed the desert without a drink.  He savored it, eyes glittering as he looked down at Lily.  It had been a stroke of genius, getting the girl to fall in love with him.  Not that she had been very happy with the idea of devoting her life to the Chantry, bemoaning a fate that would leave her a lonely old maid never having known a man.  At the time, he had only intended to use her to relieve the boredom of being cooped up in this wretched prison.  Her usefulness pleased him; it was going to make breaking her all the more enjoyable. 

            “We’re so close,” Lily whispered to him, stepping closer and placing a slim hand against his chest. 

            “Yes,” Jowan agreed taking Lily’s fingers in his hand and bringing them up to brush his lips against the tips.  “Soon, we’ll be free.”

           

            “Welcome to the Circle’s stock room of magical items.  My name is Owain.  How may I assist you?”  Tranquil and serene, Owain stood at the entrance to the stock room with an impassive look on his face.  It sent a shiver up Shattered’s spine.  How easy it was for the Chantry and Templars to decide a mage should be made tranquil.  The man standing before her was proof of the result – a living zombie, a walking breathing corpse that felt nothing.

            With such a grim reminder staring her in the face, Shattered almost lost her nerve.  She didn’t doubt for a second that getting caught helping Jowan and Lily with their scheme would be more than enough for her to be put through the Rite of Tranquility or worse – sent to Aeonar, the Tevinter fortress the Chantry used to imprison apostates.  A tingle ran the length of Sha’s body, the bile rising in her throat. 

            “I need a rod…a rod of fire, please,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together. 

            “Rods of fire can be used for many purposes.  Why do you require this item?”  It was an innocent enough question, but Shattered found her legs quivering as they threatened to dump her to her knees on the stock room floor.  She was sure Owain asked only because he already knew what she planned to use it for, that he was accusing her by his very tone, monotonous as it may be.

            A furious blush rose in her cheeks in direct contrast to the cold stone in the pit of her belly.  “My, uhm, my room is drafty,” she stammered.  “I can’t, uhm, use fire…magic.”  Shattered tried to still her twisting hands, the fingers wringing themselves together till they knuckles blanched a stark white.  “I…I…I’ll be using it to, uhm, to - to light the fireplace.”

            Owain blinked impassively at her for a moment before pulling a slip of paper from a folder next to the stock room door.  “I will set down on the form that you require the rod to deal with a personal matter,” he said as his quill scratched neat black script across the paper.  “Here is the request for a rod of fire,” he said after finishing.  “Have it signed and dated by a Senior Enchanter.  I will release a rod to you once I have this signed form.” 

            Shattered’s hand shook as she reached out, fingers trembling as she touched the parchment. 

            “I have noted that many mages feel uncomfortable in the presence of those that have been made Tranquil,” Owain said.  “Please, do not be concerned.  I do not have the capacity to be offended by your reaction.  I apologize if I have caused you discomfort.”

            Shame welled up inside Shattered.  Owain was apologizing, thinking her reaction had been spurred on by his tranquil state.

            “I’m so sorry,” she said raising her eyes to search his face.

            “Do not be concerned,” Owain replied, his face still blank. 

            Biting her lip, Shattered nodded before retreating from the stock room.  Blowing out a breath, she held the form between trembling hands and let her eyes skim over it.  How was she going to get a signature on this?  It’s not like she could just walk up and say ‘Hi there.  Could you sign this so I can melt the lock to the phylactery chamber and help my friend escape?’  Sha snorted.  That would definitely not work, unless she was trying to get a one way trip to Aeonar. 

            Suddenly, Irving’s kindly smile and twinkling eyes popped into her mind.  Surely he would sign the requisition form for her; hopefully without asking too many questions.  Pushing herself from the wall, Sha strode down the hall with renewed purpose. 

           

            Irving sighed as he sat behind the heavy oak desk in his office.  Little went on with the mages in Kinloch that he was not aware of, regardless of how inconspicuous they thought they were.  Running a hand wearily over his thick grey beard, Irving looked over the paperwork in front of him.  All that awaited was his signature, and then the only thing that would be left was to carry out the Rite of Tranquility on Apprentice Jowan, suspected maleficarum.  The Templars could complete the rite without his authorization; it was merely a formality that he sign, a nod of respect from Greagoir to inform him of the Chantry’s intent. 

            Having been aware of Jowan’s dabbling in the darker, forbidden side of magic, Irving had harbored hopes that he would eventually be able to trace the rat back to the hole, so to speak.  Someone in the tower was leading mages astray, _good_ mages.  They were being lured in with the promise of power only to become slave to demons, or worse if their natural ability was too little to satisfy the demon – food.  It really was too bad, he mused as his quill made a light scratching noise across the parchment.  If only Greagoir had been able to hold off the Chantry a little while longer, perhaps they would’ve discovered just who was turning their mages. 

            Jowan was only the first of many, he suspected.  Maleficar were like cockroaches.  Where you saw one, there were a dozen you didn’t see. 

            “Excuse me, First Enchanter?”  A light tap came from his open door, startling Irving.

            Looking up, he smiled tiredly at Shattered as she stood at his office entrance. 

            “Come in, come in,” he called to her, shuffling a few sheets of paper across his desk to cover the authorization for Rite of Tranquility.  While Jowan wasn’t exactly what Irving would call a good friend to Shattered, he was a friend.  There was no need for the girl to find out like this. 

            Hesitantly, Sha stepped forward.  She still hadn’t been able to still the quiver in her limbs as she passed the rod of fire request to Irving’s outstretched hand. 

            “A rod of fire,” he raised his eyebrows at her.  Looking back down at the form, Irving scowled.  “Personal reasons, hmm,” he tapped at his teeth with a finger.  Irving’s eyes shift from the paper to Shattered’s face.  “Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy today,” he asked gently. 

            Staring down at her fingers, Shattered shrugged.  “I thought I might get a jump on a few things,” she mumbled.  She couldn’t even bring herself to look Irving in the eye.

            “Very well,” Irving sighed reluctantly.  “I see no reason to deny your request.”  With a loop and a swirl, Irving scrawled his name across the appropriate line and handed the form back to Shattered.  “On your way then,” he gave her a slight smile, but his mind was already back on the Jowan problem. 

            “Sir?” Shattered called back to him as she paused in the doorway.

            “Hmm,” Irving asked, glancing up from his paperwork. 

            “Umm, if someone you trust asked you to..uh..do something against the rules to save him…what would you do,” she asked, eyes cast over her shoulder to look back at him.

            “You didn’t ask for that rod so you could burn down the tower, did you,” Irving asked, a twinkle sparkling in his eye. 

            “N-no, of course not,” Shattered stammered, a slight flush rising in her cheeks. 

            The smile disappeared from Irving’s face.  Ah.  So _that_ was what this is about he thought.  “You can only do what you feel is right,” he told her gravely.  “And pray your friend doesn’t ask something of you that you can’t live with.”

            Shattered’s head snapped quickly around to the front, Irving’s words unexpectedly triggering tears in her eyes.  “Thank you,” she whispered before fleeing his office. 

            Moving the sheets of parchment on his desk, Irving picked up the Rite of Tranquility authorization.  It appeared he had put it off for a little too long, he thought, and now another poor soul had been sucked into the fray.  Mouth pressed into a grim line, Irving stood with the authorization in hand and moved swiftly to Greagoir’s office. 

           

            “Wake up.”

            The whisper reached through Anders’s dreams, tugging him into wakefulness.  “Go away,” he groaned, rolling onto his side away from the noise.  Scowling, Anders pressed his eyes tightly closed.  The nerve of someone to come poke fun at him while the Templars had him still locked away in a cell.  The least they could do was wait until he had finished his nap. 

            “Maker damn it Anders, you will _wake up!”_   The voice had turned harsh and a quick jab met his ribs, jerking the youth upright with a yelp.

            “Andraste’s flaming knickers, what do you…,” Anders trailed off as he found himself face to face with his former lover, Karl. 

            “It’s good to see you, too, Anders,” he answered wryly. 

            “K-Karl,” Anders whispered, tentatively reaching out a hand to trace a finger over Karl’s stubbly cheek. 

            Sighing contentedly, Karl turned into Anders’s hand. 

            Licking his lips, Anders smiled.  “What brings you to the asshole of the tower,” he asked.  “Or is this supposed to be a conjugal visit?”  Smirking, he pushed himself against the older man’s body, grinding his pelvis suggestively against Karl’s hips.  He was rewarded with a low moan slipping through Karl’s lips. 

            A shiver ran through Karl’s body as he gasped in a deep breath.  “No,” it came out as guttural grunt, barely recognizable and Anders’s smile widened as he felt a twitching growth against his hip.  “No,” Karl said again, more firmly this time, reinforcing the word by placing his hands against Anders’s shoulders and pushing him away.  Karl took a deep cleansing breath, gazing skyward as he steadied himself.  Finally under control, he looked back at Anders, a rueful smile on his face.  “One would think you didn’t want to get out of this hole.”

            “What,” Anders blinked at him, dumbfounded.

             “Thought that might get your attention,” Karl smirked before turning to wave at the entrance leading away from the section of dungeon Anders was being kept in and for the first time he noticed they weren’t alone.

            “You must hurry if this is to work,” the newcomer fidgeted with his robe. 

            “Yes, of course Godwin,” Karl tilted his head to the side.  “Sorry sweetie,” he said and reached out to pluck a hair from Anders head. 

            “Oww,” Anders yelped, grasping at his head.  “What was that for?”

            Smirking, Godwin took the hairs from Karl nodding his thanks.  Pulling a vial from among his robes, Godwin dropped them into it and replaced the stopper before shaking the vial. 

            “Get out of your robes,” Karl whispered, moving behind Anders and placing his hands against the slim blonde’s shoulders. 

            “Now you’re talking,” Anders grinned, shimmying his rear back against Karl’s crotch.  He really needed a distraction, something to lose himself in and sex with Karl was better than sex with himself.  Ever since Neria and Shattered had visited him with the awful news of her pregnancy, he’d been feeling depressed and this was exactly what he needed. 

            “No, you scamp,” Karl groaned, hands tightening on Anders shoulders.  “Not what I meant at all,” he leaned down to gently bite the white flesh of Anders neck.  “Look,” he growled, his beard prickling against Anders skin so the younger man gasped in a breath. 

            Curious, Anders gazed with heavy lidded eyes over at Godwin who was nodding in satisfaction at the vial mixture he’d dropped the hairs into. 

            “Well,” he grinned, “bottoms up then, I guess.”  Quickly, Godwin upended the vial between his lips, making a face as he swallowed it down.  “Maker that is nasty,” he grimaced sticking his tongue out. 

            “What did you expect, with an ingredient list like that,” Karl chuckled, moving aside as Anders began sliding his mage robes off his shoulders. 

            Godwin gave him a cheeky grin.  “You certainly paid enough to get them brought in,” his face bubbled slightly, making Anders gasp.

            “Okay, I’ll admit, that is a disturbing sight,” Karl frowned. 

            “Really?  I don’t feel a thing,” Godwin reached up, tentatively touching his face as it continued to burble and slide. 

            “Oh I think I’m gonna be sick,” Anders answered, covering his mouth with his hand as he stood there in his small clothes.  He wanted to look away; he really did, but found that he couldn’t pull his eyes from the sight of Godwin’s flesh slipping across his cheek bones. 

            “Oh, I almost forgot,” the misshapen hole that was Godwin’s mouth announced as he reached into a pocket of his robe again.  He pulled out another vial, the liquid inside identical to that of the vial he had just drunk.  “This one is for you,” what must’ve been a smile spread across the rippling flesh of Godwin’s face. 

            “Oh you have lost your mind,” Anders answered, shaking his head and backing away from Godwin’s outstretched hand. 

            “Anders you have to.  Please, for my sake,” Karl pleaded. 

            “No way no sir no how,” Anders replied emphatically.  “Look what it’s done to-,” he stopped, breaking off as he looked back at Godwin. 

            “What,” Godwin looked from Karl to Anders and back.  “What is it?”

            “You’re,” Anders paused, eyes wide as he swallowed.  “You’re me?”

            “And with this, you’re me,” Godwin said, pressing the second vial into Anders’s hand before turning to undress. 

            “I don’t understand,” Anders looked from Godwin to Karl in bewilderment. 

            Taking a deep breath, Karl reached out, firmly gripping Anders’s shoulders.  “I’m afraid for you,” he whispered, pulling Anders close to fold his arms around the young man he cared so much for.  “I’m afraid that the Chantry is going to make you Tranquil, and they’re just waiting for the Grand Cleric to approve,” his voice shook slightly as he talked.  “We’re getting you out of here,” Karl’s arms tightened, his nose inhaling deeply of Anders’s scent. 

            “What?  How,” Anders pushed back, excitement in his eyes as he searched Karl’s face. 

            “The potion, you fool, now drink already,” Godwin answered, rolling his eyes as he pulled on Anders’s discarded robes. 

            Making a face, Anders looked down at the vial in his hand before shrugging and upending it.  He grimaced, swallowing the foul liquid inside.  “Bleh,” he wiped a hand across his lips. 

            Karl smirked slightly.

            “So how does this vial get me out of here,” Anders asked, hopping on one foot as he struggled to get Godwin’s robe on. 

            “You get to pretend to be lovely charming me,” Godwin grinned, “and I get to be,” he paused, looking around, “poor incarcerated you,” he ended, frowning. 

            Anders stuck his tongue out at Godwin. 

            Rolling his eyes, Karl stepped in.  “Godwin was selected as one of the support mages to be sent to Ostagar,” he said.  “The group will be leaving within the hour, only instead of Godwin it will be you,” Karl smiled, pleased with himself. 

            “But what will happen to you,” Anders asked, frowning.  If they realized Karl had helped, he would wind up in a cell. 

            “The potion only lasts for six hours,” Godwin shrugged.  “When they come to check on me, er, you tonight they’ll find you in here safe and sound, but come morning they’ll find me,” he grinned.  “Like half the Templars here get their fix for extra lyrium they need from me so I doubt they’ll be too harsh in dealing with me,” he grinned.  “Besides, Karl here is paying your weight in gold, so,” he shrugged. 

            “You dirty little extortionist,” Anders grinned. 

            “What can I say,” Godwin laughed, “I’m building an empire right under the Templar’s noses.” 

            Anders made a face as he snapped the clasp on Godwin’s robe.  “Can’t carry it with you,” he murmured.

            “Why would I want to,” Godwin laughed. 

            “Because you can’t find everything you want in a tower,” Anders snorted.

            “Maybe not,” Godwin mused, “but with the favors and coin I get, I can bring whatever I want to the tower,” he winked. 

            Some people would just never get it, Anders decided.  They allowed themselves to get complacent and comfortable, exchanging their freedom for trinkets.  The smile disappeared off his face as he considered it.  Perhaps they were the lucky few, the ones that didn’t draw the unwanted attention of the Templars.  He considered it, blinking impassively.  Godwin wasn’t much of a looker, no wonder the Templars had left him alone.  Perhaps it had only been his bad luck to be born a mage and pretty that had brought all the troubles down on his head.  Anders laughed, shaking his head.  The Maker sure had a funny way of doing things. 

            “What about you, Karl?  I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt while trying to help me.”

            A shadow passed over Karl’s face as he dropped his gaze away.  “I’m leaving tomorrow, Anders,” he said.  “They’re sending me to Kirkwall.”

            Anders felt his breath catch in his throat.  Kirkwall.  The City of Chains, where even inside the Circle it wasn’t safe to be a mage, if the rumors that had been drifting down could be believed. 

            “Maker no,” he whispered, horror on his face. 

            “Please don’t worry,” Karl smiled sadly, reaching out to gently touch Anders’s cheek.  “Perhaps I can do some good there.”

            “Yes, and perhaps you will get your ass caught and fried if you don’t get out of here,” Godwin rolled his eyes. 

            Turning toward him, Karl offered his hand.  “Thank you, friend, I couldn’t have done this without your aid.”

            “Yes, well, you made an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Godwin gave him a crooked smile.  “And you,” he pointed a finger at Anders, “just make sure you slip away from the Templars escorting you during the night because the potion will have worn off by morning.”

            “Right,” Anders nodded dumbly. 

            “You should be safe enough,” Godwin eyed him, tweaking his robe with little jerks.  “It’s my phylactery they’ll have, so they won’t be able to track you until they send word to Denerim.  You should have a decent enough head start by then.”

            “Right,” Anders said again. 

            “Come,” Karl prodded him, “we should go.  The Templars will be looking for y – Godwin to depart with.”

            “Wait, how are we going to lock the cell,” Anders asked as Karl swung the door shut behind them.

            “Same way we got in, I imagine,” Godwin snorted.  He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, selected one and reached through the bars to lock himself in. 

            “Maker watch over you,” Karl offered to the caged mage. 

            Chuckling, Godwin waved him off.  He stood at the bars, grasping cold steel between his slim fingers as he watched the pair exit from the far side of the dungeon.  Andraste’s tits, Karl was going to Kirkwall.  Shivering at the thought, Godwin crossed himself and turned to stretch out on the small cot against the wall that had served as Anders’s bed since the last time he’d been dragged back to the Circle five months ago. 

            It was going to be a very boring night. 

           

            A roil of emotions rippled through Shattered as she stood outside the stock room, the signed rod of fire request in her hands.  How easy it would be to simply tear up the form and return to Lily and Jowan, telling them she had been denied.  It would be so easy…

            Would that stop the guilty self-loathing from moving its way through her?  Nausea gripped her guts in its tight clutches, sending Shattered to the wall where she clutched at her stomach groaning.  Turning her back to the wall, she slid down to the floor.  Maybe it was morning sickness, Sha decided. 

            “I see you’ve returned,” Owain’s monotonous voice broke through the haze of queasiness that gripped Sha, making her gasp in surprise.  “Have you had the request form signed?”

            Automatically, Sha’s arm reached up, handing over the parchment to the Tranquil. 

            “Everything appears in order,” Owain told her.  “I will return momentarily with the item.”  Just like that he was gone, disappeared back into the stock room. 

            Shattered blinked numbly at the spot where he had stood a moment ago.  She hadn’t even been aware if she still planned on turning the request in when Owain had asked for it.  Her arm had moved as if it were controlled by someone else.  Like a puppet on a string, she had watched and now what was done was done. 

            Groaning, Shattered pulled her knees up and dropped her head into her hands.  The wave of nausea passed just as soon as it had arrived, replaced by a sickening icy dread.  


	15. Following the Darkness

#  15 – Following the Darkness

 

            “Please be careful,” Bethany beseeched her brother as she laid her hand delicately against his face, thumb rubbing soothingly along his cheek bone. 

            “Right,” Carver snorted.  “As if I have any choice with the amazon throwing herself in front of everything pointy enough to be challenging,” he jerked his chin in the direction of Trav who was standing next to the militia Captain, the two obviously in heated conversation while they waited for the rest of the militia volunteers to say their goodbyes before marching off to Ostagar. 

            “She’s just trying to protect you,” Bethany said, following her brother’s gaze to where Trav stood, feet braced apart and arms crossed over her chest, glowering at Captain Thomas.  It was a stance Beth knew well, despite seeing it most often while Travisty was in the heavy leather apron of the smithy while she argued over the price of her work.  Being a female smith, she had to be tough or get the reputation of being a push over, working for next to nothing with the price being her sweat and blood. 

            None of the stubbornness was lost from Trav’s stance despite now carrying a set of massive plate over her large frame. 

            “Steal all the glory, more like,” Carver grumbled. 

            “Don’t be like that,” Beth frowned.  “She really is trying to look out for you.”

            “Right, because mother dear asked her to,” he sneered in reply. 

            “Because she loves you.”  It had come out a bit sharper than Bethany had intended, snapping Carver’s gaze around to blink at her in surprise.  

            “Form up!”  Captain Thomas bellowed, shaking his head at Trav with a rueful smile as the rest of the volunteers shuffled into a rough formation.  They were farmers and merchants, able bodied men and women who’s lands were threatened by the darkspawn, some of them living far enough south of Lothering that their families would be staying at Dane’s Refuge, Lothering’s only inn, while they went back to fight the darkspawn. 

            Bethany watched as Carver fell in, Trav next to him with Soul Eater bound in its leather scabbard at her back.  She wondered how many of the militia would return, and had to blink back an unexpected blur of tears.  When King Cailan and his troops had passed through a few days earlier, there had been an air of tense excitement.  Not only was THE King of Fereldon among the common people, but the fabled Grey Wardens traveled with him to lead the battle against a Blight.  Now, standing there and watching Captain Thomas address the militia, it was all too real, too easy to think that her siblings might not make it back despite Carver’s cocky attitude and the victorious smirk on Travisty’s face. 

            Well, at least whatever she had been talking to Thomas about she had achieved.  Beth just worried what it might be.  Covering her mouth to stifle a giggle, Beth watched as Thomas strut back and forth in front of the militia formation, his chest puffed out with self-importance while he lectured them on duty to their land, the crown, and their family, friends, and neighbors.  It certainly was a rousing speech, the militia volunteers cheering and clapping, pumping their fists toward the sky as Thomas finished, his face flushed.  Who would’ve guessed that the part time tanner, full time drunk had such an eloquent nature to stir the rag tag group to excitement. 

            As the formation turned, Trav dropped out and stepped to Bethany’s side.  Trav reached out and gently took Beth’s chin between her gauntleted thumb and forefinger, tilting Beth’s head slightly upward to press a kiss to her forehead. 

            “The militia will be guarding the rear,” she said quietly when she released Beth’s chin.  Piercing indigo eyes gazed down into dark chocolate ones, Trav offered Beth a half smile.  “Farthest away from the fighting.  I will be at his side until you see him again,” she softly brushed a few strands of Beth’s hair behind her ear. 

            “Thank you,” Beth answered tenderly, and then stood watching, helpless, as Trav jogged off to catch the rest of the militia in a jangle of clanging metal. 

            “It is hard, watching loved ones go off to battle and leave you behind.” 

            Beth smiled, looking sideways to the lay sister with the bright red hair standing next to her.  Leliana, she thought the girl was called.  “It’s very hard,” Beth agreed, eyes going back to the retreating forms of the troops. 

            “Would you like to talk about it?  The Maker teaches us not to fear the legion, for our faith will sustain us.  I could recite the Canticle of Trials if you like?”

            “No offense, sister, but when was the last time you saw a Hawke in the Chantry reading the Chant of Light,” Bethany chuckled. 

            “I believe it was your father, in fact,” Leliana gave a chuckle of her own at the shocked look on Bethany’s face.  “It was shortly after I arrived in Lothering,” a sad smile crossed her face.  “The disease had just taken hold.  I remember he was very quiet, but had a noble demeanor.  He was in the Chantry, late one night, talking to the Maker.  He asked that his family be watched over and kept safe.”

            A breath caught in Bethany’s throat and she had to blink back tears at the unexpected information.  Even faced with his own death looming, Malcolm Hawke had been thinking of his family’s welfare.  She glanced at the militia, her brother and sister now to far away to pick out from the rest of the soldiers as they marched off to who knows what kind of danger. 

            “There is a great darkness coming,” Leliana said solemnly.  “We all must be ready.”  Turning, the lay sister stepped back toward the Chantry, leaving Bethany to stare after her, bewildered by her final words.

 

            It was hard to concentrate on what Lily was saying as she rambled on about the Victim’s Door that closed the basement off from the rest of the tower and the number of planks versus the number of original Templars.  Shattered’s nerves had turned to frozen ball of liquid lightning, trickling across her skin and tingling up her back, plucking her like a tightly wound string.  The nausea roiling in her stomach Sha could wave off as being caused by her pregnancy, but the intense feeling of being watched, of doing something irreversibly _wrong_ sat square on her shoulders and would not be shrugged off.  Helping Jowan was the _right_ thing to do, she kept telling herself, a hand drifting down to her belly where only a slight protruding showed evidence of her condition. 

            There needed to be a change, a world where they were free to live, to love and to raise their children as any other person.  A world where mages were treated as men and women, not as monsters; it was worth fighting for.  Her fingers spread slightly, protectively over her growing child.  She glanced down, smiling at the thought of her child laughing and playing in a garden.  _Cullen’s_ child.  They had a right to raise it, together.  Taking a deep breath, Shattered tried to focus on Lily’s words, reminding herself the real reason she was helping them wasn’t about either of the two people in front of her, or the Circle and the Chantry despite how guilty she felt for breaking their laws.  It was about the children Lily or Jowan might have, and _their_ right to have loving parents watching over them. 

            _“Sword of the Maker, Tears of the Fade,”_ Lily recited before turning toward Shattered expectantly. 

            “What,” Shattered blinked uncertainly.

            “Not her most eloquent moment, I’ll admit,” Jowan chuckled, eyes half lidded as he glanced between them.  Concentrating on the task at hand was proving difficult for him; his mind kept jumping ahead to the delicious, tortured look he was sure to see on Lily’s face once they were free of the tower.  And Shattered, oh if she only knew!  That would make it oh so much sweeter. 

            “Please, you must hurry,” Lily whispered frantically.  “The longer we linger, the more likely we are to be caught.  Any spell will do, but the door must feel the touch of mana from a Harrowed mage.”

            Sheepishly, Shattered stepped forward and focused a healing spell on the door.  As soon as the cast completed, a loud click filled the hallway and the door swung open on creaking hinges.  Lily heaved a sigh of relief and hurried forward, but Sha’s step faltered as she glanced at Jowan, eyes lingering on the Cheshire cat’s grin that spread across his face before he could wipe it away. 

            “After you,” he bowed low, a hand sweeping out in front of them as his expression settled into something much more benign, leaving Shattered to wonder if she had been seeing things right to start with as she kept him in her gaze and carefully skittered past. 

            “Here, this is the door!  Quickly, use the rod to melt the locks,” Lily waved Sha forward. 

            Mouth drawn into a thin line, Shattered stepped closer to the door and felt the weight of guilt settle on her; guilt over the betrayal of the Circle, and more importantly, for betraying Irving and Greagoir – those who had trusted her most.  Sending a silent prayer to Andraste and the Maker, Shattered wasn’t sure if she was praying for the rod to work or fail.  She held it out with a trembling hand and touched it to the lock on the phylactery chamber door. 

            Shattered let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, shoulders slumping as her tension broke when the rod sizzled and glowed but failed to melt the lock.  “It’s not working,” she called out, to shaky with relief to care that her voice was high and giddy.  “We’ll just have to turn back.”  She pointed to the carved stone surrounding the door.  “The wards are negating all magic in the area.”  So this was why a door was all it took to keep a tower full of mages from getting through.  Once they came to the door, any mage would be just an ordinary man, their magic useless and inaccessible. 

            “No!”  Jowan stood, face twisted in rage and fists clenched and trembling at his sides.  “No,” he said again, with more control.  “We’ll just have to find another way,” his lip curled in a silent snarl he stopped from voicing as he paced back and forth in front of the door, hand running through his hair.  “There has to be another way.”  He stopped, hands planted on his hips as he glared about.  “There,” he pointed, “at the end of the hallway.  Where does that door lead?”

            “I…I’m not sure,” Lily stammered, clearly taken back by Jowan’s change in attitude and his show of rage.  Here was a side of him she had never seen before; she’d only ever seen him as a kind, gentle and caring man.  This was…something completely different that she was seeing now.  “It may be another part of the repository,” she shrugged. 

            “We’ll go through there,” Jowan told them, jaw set in determination.  “We’ll find another way in to the chamber, even if we have to knock a damn wall down.”  He looked to them, and only then seemed to realize what he’d let slip as he gazed at Lily’s eyes opened wide.  “For us, my love,” he smiled sweetly.  “For a better life, just the two of us.”  He raised a hand, beckoning her closer. 

            “Yes,” Lily whispered, hand slipping into Jowan’s as she reached out tentatively.   “For a better life.” 

           

            “This doesn’t feel right,” Sha fidgeted, hesitant to touch the rod to the second door’s lock.  Her gaze shifted between the two suits of armor positioned on either side of the door.  Common sense was kicking in, asking her why Templars didn’t guard the phylactery chamber.  They knew the answer to that one now – magic didn’t work against it.  So why not have a guard at this door, if it could be used to reach the repository where magical artifacts were kept, some of which were forbidden?  Inspecting the stone around the door, Sha noted the absence of wards that protected the phylactery door.  But that didn’t mean the door _wasn’t_ guarded.  She glanced again at the suits of armor.  “Something isn’t right,” she said slowly. 

            “Oh for pity’s sake,” Jowan snatched the rod from her grasp.  “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself,” he muttered as he stretched the rod forward, a malicious smile twisting across his face as the lock glowed red and the metal started to melt, leaving burn streaks on the wood as it dripped down the door to pool on the stone floor. 

            “See,” Jowan smiled triumphantly as he pushed the door open.  “Nothing to it.”

            Cringing, Shattered watched as the suits of armor creaked and shuffled, their movements jerky as they stepped forward from their positions.  Her instincts had been correct, it seemed.  “That can’t be good,” she pulled the mage’s staff Irving had given her after her Harrowing forward from its sling on her back, Jowan mirroring her actions with his Apprentice’s staff while Lily cowered against the wall, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as her gaze darted from armor to mages and back again. 

            Fighting enchanted armor that can move on its own isn’t _anything_ like fighting darkspawn, Shattered decided as she cast a Winter’s Grasp, freezing one in place.   Metal, red steel, if Shattered guessed right, didn’t react the same way to spells that flesh would.  Gritting her teeth, Sha focused her energy through the staff, allowing a lightning bolt to rip from the tip into the frozen set of enchanted armor. 

            “Lily!  Help me,” Jowan called out as the armor he was fighting closed in on him.  Never a very good mage, his Winter’s Grasp hadn’t lasted long enough for him to get a second spell off before the armor had broken loose and was upon him.  Hearing his call, Lily finally broke free from her fear, pushing off from the wall and lunging forward, fists pummeling uselessly against the armor. 

            Wrapping both hands around the shaft of her staff, Sha swung hard, knocking the helm off the armor she was fighting so that it fell into a crumpled heap in the hallway.  Looking over her shoulder at Jowan and Lily, Shattered watched as the armor raised its blades over its head and readied for a downswing.  It was going to be a close one. 

            Straining, Sha thrust her staff upward between Jowan and the armor, one of its blades catching against the shaft, the other slicing off the focus at the top and slamming against the wall next to Jowan’s shoulder where it shrieked and sparked against the stone as it gouged a line down the wall.  It was all the distraction that was needed, though, as Jowan thrust the head of his staff into opening right under the face shield of the helm and cast an arcane bolt directly into the armor.  It crumped at their feet. 

            “Jowan, oh Jowan, are you okay,” Lily pushed forward into him, hands running fervently over his chest and arms. 

            “I’m fine.  Fine,” he shrugged her off with a frown. 

            “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to turn back now,” Shattered asked hopefully and then sighed at the glare Jowan shot her in response.  “We’re likely to find more of those things,” she said as she moved to look through the doorway.  “And my staff is now fairly useless,” she tilted it, indicating the lack of a focus at the head.  With the focus missing, she might as well be casting without a staff for as much good as it would do.  She’d tire quicker; her spells would be less powerful and harder to control.   

            “You should be more careful with your things,” Jowan snarled.

            “Yes, you’re right, what was I thinking?” Shattered shook her head.  “Next time, I’ll just stand back and let them kill you.  How does that sound?”  She rolled her eyes. 

            Visibly reining in his temper, Jowan straightened and cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks.  “I…apologize,” he coughed.  “And I…thank you.” 

            Shattered felt some of the tension leave her shoulders and she smiled.  “I’m not sure what’s gotten into you today, Jowan,” she said as she gave him a poke in the ribs, “but I’m glad to see there’s still a bit of you showing through.” 

            “Indeed,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.  Frowning, he jerked his chin at her staff, “There’s bound to be something to replace that in one of the supply rooms ahead,” he said, then glanced toward Lily, “and perhaps something for you as well.”  A smile crossed his features.  “Your fists didn’t do quite as well as hoped, did they,” he asked gently. 

            Looking down at her hands, Lily uncurled her fists revealing bloody and bruised knuckles.  “No, I don’t guess they did,” she answered in a shaky voice. 

            “Here, let me,” Sha covered Lily’s hands with her own and let a healing spell flow from her fingers into Lily’s, the familiar tingling warmth spreading out under her touch. 

            “Thank you,” Lily smiled brightly and Sha was struck by how pretty she could be.  Ah, she thought, so that was why Jowan liked her. 

            “If you two are finished,” Jowan scowled at them, “I believe I see two more of those _things_ coming this way.”

            “Ah.”  Shattered shifted her gaze to look farther into the hallway they’d found themselves in.  “Triggering one set of sentinels likely activates all of them,” she gestured into the corridor, “We should move in and close the door.  Would likely be bad if a Templar strolled down here and saw us.”

            “Agreed,” Jowan moved forward, staff ready to meet the oncoming sentinels. 

            Even though they already knew what they faced, the second group was tougher than the first.  Without a focus, Shattered’s staff was better used as a club, bludgeoning the sentinels as she tried to conserve mana.  Who knew when she’d be able to find a staff in the storage rooms, or how many of the enchanted armors they’d have to face before getting there. 

            Blood pounded in her ears and sweat trickled down from her temple as Shattered swung the damaged staff overhead in a crushing blow to one of the sentinel’s shoulders.  Sure, she had fought without a staff to focus her magic before, but that had been desperate.  Cullen had been there, vulnerable without his armor on; there was no way she would let the darkspawn hurt him. 

            This was different.  She leaned against her staff, panting with exhaustion as the sentinels fell.  Protecting Cullen had been right; this was wrong and went against her very nature.  There was no rush of adrenalin for the battle, no surge of elation when her foe fell.  There was only shame and guilt that grew with each step they made deeper into the bowels of the tower; it weighed her down, sapping her strength.  She was betraying those who trusted her while she fought on for an ideal, a dream she hoped to see a reality that could start with a single mage and the Chantry initiate that loved him.  Hand brushing across her belly, Sha wondered what she’d gotten herself into. 

            “Shattered,” Jowan called from ahead.  He leaned out the door to one of the storage rooms to the side, a broad grin across his face and sweat dripping from his forehead.  “Come here, you have to see this,” he waved her forward with his hand. 

            “Yeah,” she took a deep breath, “I’m coming.”

 

            The wind blew brisk across Lake Calenhad carrying with it the sting of surf and the smell of freedom.  Anders stood at the prow of the boat, breathing in deep with each breath.  He had been nervous, _jumpy_ even while the Templars had counted through them, accounting for each mage and their accompanying phylactery while the mages going to Ostagar to assist the King’s men in fighting to stop the Blight stood patiently in a line along the wall.  He’d been certain that someone would realize he _wasn’t_ Godwin. 

            But he was only given a cursory glance, a check mark made next to N. Godwin scrawled across the parchment, and then a second one added when the Templar sorting phylacteries confirmed said mage’s was accounted for.  For a single, panicked moment Anders wondered if they would ask him what the N stood for – a question to which he had no idea the answer – and was relieved when they moved on to the mage standing next to him, Wynne, he believed.  His nerves were wound to tightly for him to really care at the time who it was, tunnel vision scrunching his focus down to what was _exactly_ in front of him and how to deal with it making him unable to either plan ahead or look behind because surely this hair brained scheme was far to spur of the moment to actually work for any decent length of time. 

            And yet here he was, moments later, on the boat that would take them to shore and start their journey to Lothering and on to Ostagar to fight the darkspawn.  Or, rather, that was the destination of the other mages.  A smile crossed Anders’s lips as he brushed Godwin’s mousey brown hair back from his forehead.  It was absolutely, completely and astonishingly crazy that Karl had come up with such an insane plan.  It was working.  He was already out of the tower, and it wouldn’t be until sometime tomorrow before the Templars figured it out. 

            Taking another deep breath, Anders looked back over his shoulder at the tower.  His eyes softened slightly with sadness, his grin fading marginally.  Shattered was back there.  She was there, in the tower, carrying another man’s child.  A Templars child.  At that thought, Anders’s smile disappeared entirely and he turned back to face forward, eyes searching the coastline that had just come into sight for the docks. 

            She could stay there, he decided.  She could stay there and rot for all he cared.  He would find comfort in another woman; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone to the arms of another instead of the one he really wanted.  Maybe find a brothel and line them all up to take turns.  A glimmer of a grim smile turned the corners of his mouth upward.  He had heard rumors about a really high class whore house in Denerim.  The Pearl, if he remembered correctly.  Pulling the small parcel of belongings they were each allowed to bring closer, Anders did a mental tally of the coin he’d been able to stash away and wondered how many girls he’d be able to buy with it.  He hoped it would be enough to bury the pain. 

            The journey had barely begun, and already he was impatient for night to fall so he could make good on his escape.  The sooner he got to Denerim and The Pearl, the sooner he could drown himself in whiskey and women, following the downward spiral as far as he could take it with a prayer to the Maker that he forget about _her._  

            The boat pitched in the choppy water stirred up by the wind, and a moment of giddy nausea dropped Anders’s stomach.  This was the first time he’d escaped the tower and actually had a _plan_ on what he was going to do with his freedom, however short it was.  A destination, other than _as far away from the Tower as possible._   He probably could’ve chuckled about it, but that would’ve drawn to much suspicion. 

            The boat bumped against the dock, and Anders hopped off first, excited to have his feet on ground that didn’t belong to the Circle. 

            “Ha ha, look at Godwin,” one of the Templars laughed, “Who would’ve thought he was eager to face the darkspawn.”

            Godwin was…oh, that’s right.  Anders plastered what he hoped was a sheepish smile across his face and turned to face the other Templars and mages departing the boat.  He had to remember he wasn’t _Anders_.  He was _Godwin_ and it wouldn’t do to raise suspicions. 

            “Seasick,” he told them, making a face and clutching his stomach.  “Just eager to be on something that isn’t rocking under my feet,” he stomped his foot to emphasize. 

            “Seasick,” the Templar who had laughed about the darkspawn spoke up again.  “How did you get seasick on a _lake_ ,” his arm swung wide to indicate Lake Calenhad before he guffawed so hard he had to put a hand to his knee to keep from falling. 

            Running his hand through his hair, Anders let himself chuckle a little and reminded himself to be patient.  They weren’t expecting to reach Lothering until the day after tomorrow, and the ruins at Ostagar a few days after.  That meant they likely wouldn’t push too hard to travel today.  He only had to wait until dark in another five hours or so and then he would slip away once the Templars had relaxed.  Then he could push on through the night and be well on the way to Denerim before they even knew he was gone. 

            Sliding Godwin’s satchel over his shoulder, Anders fell into line with the other mages, confident in his course of action. 

           

            “Wow, that’s…,” Shattered paused, licking her lips and wishing she had something to alleviate the sudden dryness in her mouth.  “That’s the staff I had in the Fade.  Almost exactly.”

            “I don’t follow,” Jowan raised his brows questioningly. 

            “I, uh, well, I’m not sure the _how_ matters,” Shattered smiled apologetically, unwilling to fill even Jowan in on her experience with Valor and Mouse, “but while I was in the Fade, I came into possession of a staff that was almost exactly like this one.” 

            Gently, Sha ran her hand over the heartwood shaft; her fingers lovingly traced the red leather binding the staff to a bladed tip the length of her forearm that was attached to the end.  Her eyes traveled to the focusing crystal affixed to the top and she let out a small sigh.  Therein lay the difference; where her staff in the fade had a pale blue crystal, this staff’s crystal showed a dull red.  Still, she felt some measure of comfort as she firmly gripped the shaft and felt an answering thrum of power course through the wood.    

            “I take it the staff is to your liking, then?”  There was a suspicious twinkle in Jowan’s eyes as he asked the question that made her feel as though she were looking at Mouse again right before he ripped off his own face and proved to be more than what he seemed, but Sha couldn’t sense any maliciousness in the question, so she pushed aside the suspicious tickle at the nape of her neck and smiling, nodded her accent. 

            In a nearby chest, they found Lily a sword and dagger; rusty forgotten practice weapons from some long ago Templar trainee, but they would do to arm the initiate and would be better to defend herself against the animated sentinels than bare fists. 

            “Shall we?” Jowan asked, brows raised questioningly to the two women at his sides.  “I feel as though we’ve dawdled long enough.  It’s making my skin crawl,” his shoulders shivered to emphasize, giving a visual to his words.  It didn’t help Sha to relax, knowing that she wasn’t the only one suffering with apprehension, but it did feel more like _Jowan_ than Jowan had since they’d started this venture with the failed attempt at melting the lock on the phylactery chamber door with the rod of fire.  That, at least, was worth a smile.

            “Yes,” Lily agreed, “all these forgotten passages are giving me the creeps.  We could be killed down here and no one would ever know!”

            “Seldom used, definitely.  Forgotten, unlikely,” Sha mused.  She had run across a tome on Irving’s personal bookshelves once that had turned out to be a record of items – some confiscated from mages, others procured for research or study – each one detailed in a painstakingly neat script with a brief description of its properties and a coded location that denoted a storage room number, shelf, chest and position inside the room.  She had no doubt the staff she now held was recorded in that very tome somewhere. 

            “Still, Lily is correct; standing around is tempting fate.  We should move on.”  She gave a nod to Jowan to take the lead, standing to watch as he strutted confidently into the dimly lit corridor that would lead them deeper into the bowels of the tower and, hopefully, closer to the phylactery chamber.  Without a second’s hesitation, Lily scuttled after him leaving Shattered to watch with a slightly bemused expression as she wondered if that was how she looked when she tried to keep up with Cullen’s long stride. 

            Giving her head a shake, Sha moved after the two into the weak glow from the enchanted torches flickering low along the walls.  Glancing behind, Sha noted that the torches they had previously passed had already flickered out.   There was nothing but darkness behind and nothing but darkness ahead.  A shiver went up her spine as she wondered if that were an ill omen for their mission. 

            “Shattered,” Jowan called from farther ahead than Sha had expected, “Are you coming, or are you contemplating how to turn into a golem?”

            “I…Yes.  I’m coming,” chuckling at her own overactive imagination, Shattered trotted after her friends, feet skimming lightly over the cold stone floor and her staff a reassuring weight in her hands.


	16. Feathery Frenemies

# 16 – Feathery Frenemies

 

            “I can’t wait to get out of here,” Lily shuddered as another set of sentinels fell, “These things are not of the Maker.”  The chantry initiate stood, brushing sweat and grime from her face. 

            “Truly,” Shattered asked, brows raised as she looked at Lily.  The grim look she got in return told her all she needed to know about Lily’s opinion on the enchanted armors guarding the passages they traveled.  “And yet here they are, in the Tower, probably at the Chantry’s request,” Sha frowned. 

            “Hypocrites,” Jowan snorted.  “Have you ever considered that phylacteries are nothing more than blood magic,” he questioned.  “And yet if we even consider it, we’re branded maleficarum and are turned Tranquil.  Or worse – killed.”  Slinging his staff across his back Jowan crossed his arms over his chest, a dark look on his face. 

            Kneeling, Sha poked at one of the fallen sentinels with the bladed tip of her new staff.  “Surely this isn’t blood magic, though.  I’ve seen the Tranquil enchant objects before, as have you, Jowan,” she said. 

            “True enough,” Jowan conceded, “but have you ever seen those objects move on their own accord?  Get up and walk about?  Try to behead you,” he gave a snort of contempt and sneered at Sha.  “Thought not.” 

            “Of all the foul things,” Lily crossed herself as Sha tipped the sentinel’s empty helm, causing it to roll across the floor to Lily’s feet revealing a blood seal faded to the color of rust inscribed on the inside.  “They are the workings of a blood mage,” she hissed, lips curled into a snarl. 

            “Yet more evidence of the Chantry’s hypocrisy,” Jowan huffed, gesturing at the armors. 

            “This could work to our advantage,” Shattered said, her mouth drawn into a pinched line as she set aside her personal feelings on blood magic to clinically studied the two sets of armor. 

            “How do you figure you’re doing anything more than slowing us down right now,” Jowan sniped at her. 

            “Look.  Here and here,” Sha pointed to the matching blood inscriptions on the inside of the breastplates.  “And here,” she held up the second helm and pointed just behind the face shield.  “All of the markings are in the exact same spot on both armors.  There likely needed to have something to, I don’t know, tie each set together.  Destroying one symbol probably interrupts the flow of power to the entire suit.”

            “And now we know where they are.”  A feral grin spread across Jowan’s face, sending a fearful prickle of cold up Shattered’s spine.  Again, she found herself wondering if this really was the best way to help her friend.

            “This place is tainted,” Lily shifted on her feet nervously as she glanced around the neglected passageway.  “I want to get out of here as soon as possible.”  A rat scurried past, sticking close to the corridor’s stone wall and Lily let out a small squeal before clamping a hand over her mouth while her whole body shuddered.

            “Who knows what else is down here,” Sha said, calmly pushing herself to a stand.  After facing darkspawn, a rat was nothing.  Even if it _was_ a very large rat. 

            “More reason to push on,” Jowan said grimly as he stepping forward to take the lead. 

            “So when you mentioned what else could be down here,” Lily asked as she fell in next to Shattered behind Jowan, “what exactly did you mean?”

            “Oh, Kinloch Hold is old.  Older than old,” Sha glanced at Lily and gave a quick smile.  “Many of its lower rooms and passages have been forgotten over the years as the Circle has used less and less of it.  Now, the Mages and Templars are pretty much only using the above ground portion.  With a few notable exceptions,” she sighed as she thought of Anders trapped in a cage of his own making. 

            “But the Tevinters built the Tower, it can’t be _that_ old” Lily said.  She had calmed down some and her voice was no longer shaking, but her eyes were still scanning the hallway around them as she walked. 

            “Not at all,” Sha laughed and waved her hand at their surroundings.  “Do you really think the Tevinters could’ve built something that lasted this long?”

            “The Dwarves could,” Jowan called over his shoulder as he continued leading them, picking a corridor that branched off to the left from the one they’d been walking through. 

            “Exactly,” Shattered smiled.  “Long ago, before even the Tevinter Imperium had reached what is now Fereldon, the Avvars and the Dwarves built Kinloch Hold.  It served as a watch tower and a fortress during a time when there was constant warring between the Alamarri clans.  It was thought to be impregnable.”

            “Except the Tevinter Imperium impregnated it,” Lily said solemnly and Shattered sputtered a moment as she tried to keep from laughing because the initiate was being completely serious. 

            “It’s not called ‘impregnating’ when a fortress is taken; that’s something breeding stock do,” Jowan retorted condescendingly.  “When a fortress is breeched, it’s called being conquered.  Generally followed by the inhabitants being wiped out.”

            “Oh,” Lily was quite for a moment, the only sound through the empty stone halls was their soft shoes padding through the dust in the floor.  “How do you know so much about the tower anyway,” Lily asked, her tone curious.

            “I imagine,” Jowan answered dryly, “that Shattered has probably read the entire history of Thedas by now.”  He gave a short snort, “Every time she goes anywhere near the library it’s like a book appears out of thin air and into her hand,” he twirled a few fingers in the air, the hint of a magic wisp swirling around them, “It’s like magic or something,” he concluded.

            “I haven’t really read the entire history of Thedas,” Sha smiled sheepishly as she turned toward Lily.  “I’ve just always been interested in history.  In a time before the Circle,” she sighed wistfully.

            There was an awkward moment of silence between the three.  Finally, Lily cleared her throat.  “So the Dwarves helped build the tower,” she asked after a little while and waited for Shattered to nod before continuing, “So it could potentially extend clear down to the Deep Roads?”

            “I’m not certain,” Shattered answered, blowing out a breath and running her fingers through her hair.  “I mean, we are in the middle of a lake.  I’m not saying it isn’t possible,” she assured when she saw the crestfallen look on Lily’s face, “I’ve just never heard of passages going deep enough that they met up with the Deep Roads.” 

            “Do you think there still might be cracks and such where creatures might find their way up,” Lily asked, and Shattered eyed her warily. 

            “It is…possible, I suppose, that some of the smaller creatures of the Deep Roads might find a way in.  As I said, there is no way to know just how close the passages get,” Sha shrugged. 

            “So that rat could’ve been from the Deep Roads,” Lily gestured behind them and gave a small shudder. 

            “Yes, I suppose so,” Shattered sighed.  “The rat could’ve been from the Deep Roads, that spider could be,” she gestured toward a web in the corner of a doorway, “For all I know, there could be all kinds of things down here that found a way up from the Deep Roads.”

            “Like,” Lily prodded her questioningly, and Sha felt a streak of irritation bolt through her. 

            Exasperated, she threw up her hands.  “I don’t know!  Like – “

            “Deepstalkers,” Jowan said from in front of them.

             “Yes, exactly like deepstalkers,” Sha said, relieved that it wouldn’t be solely her responsibility to scour her memory for Deep Roads creatures – truth be told she was pretty sure she’d been daydreaming about spending time with Cullen during that class.

            “No, _deepstalkers_ ,” Jowan grabbed his staff from his back and Sha got her first glimpse past him into the room he’d just opened and the grey, leathery beast inside.  It was just registering their presence, its thin pink tongue darting past razor sharp teeth that ringed its circular mouth as it tasted the air before turning to the intruders and letting out a squawk.  Its lizardy body stretched upward on meaty hind legs, the smaller front appendages tucked in tightly against the rib cage.  Like a cannibalistic chicken, the deepstalker squawked at them again before lunging forward. 

            A breath hissed between Shattered’s teeth and she pulled her staff from the carry sling at her back.             

            “What do I do,” Lily cried out in a panic as she cowered against the stone wall of the corridor. 

            “Stab the shit out of it,” Jowan yelled as he threw up a Winter’s Grasp, trapping the grey monstrosity in its icy hold. 

            “More incoming,” Sha bellowed as a group of the creatures trudged around a fallen bookshelf and into sight. 

            “Bullocks,” Jowan cursed as he sent an Arcane Bolt from the tip of his staff to shatter the deepstalker he’d caught.  Even though the critters didn’t reach as high as a grown man’s waist they were ruthless and used pack size to their advantage in a fight, usually overwhelming their prey under an onslaught of superior numbers. 

            If they let themselves get surrounded or cornered, they were as good as dead. 

            Shattered was already on the move, though.  Adrenalin pumped through her veins and both Jowan and Lily dropped into the background as she stepped forward, hands held together in front of her as she channeled a cold spell.  The Cone of Cold burst forth like an avalanche from between her palms so cold it burned her.  Her fingers felt as stiff as daggers as she gripped her staff and still the chill spilled forth, freezing the deepstalkers into lumpy, grey flesh-cicles.  And yet the burning sensation traveled up from her hands to her elbows and then higher until the pain was too great and Shattered fell to her knees. 

            “Quickly, Lily,” Jowan called out, “We must shatter them while they’re still frozen!” 

            The mage and Chantry initiate moved past Shattered and set to work breaking the frozen deepstalkers with dagger and staff, but Sha barely registered when they brushed by.  Her attention was focused on her frozen hands and the trail of frost up her arms.   A painful grimace spread across her face and she couldn’t even drop her staff for fear of breaking off one of the fingers that was frozen to it.  She hissed as she carefully channeled a heal into her frozen limbs. 

            The deepstalkers dealt with, Jowan turned back toward Shattered.  A frown crossed his face and his forehead creased with worry.  It had been hard enough to face the sentinels when Shattered hadn’t had the full use of a staff.  If she were unable to fight, the journey for his phylactery would be much more lethal. 

            “How bad is it,” Jowan asked softly as he reached out to graze a finger across the back of Shattered’s hand. 

            “Don’t touch me!”  Sha shrieked, shrinking away from his touch as a broken sob caught in her throat and caused Jowan to pull back from her, his eyes widened in surprise.  She curled her arms closer to her chest protectively, the staff still clenched between her frozen fingers.  “Don’t…don’t touch,” her words were broken and soft as they passed through her lips riding the back of her panting breaths as they passed through her clenched teeth. 

            Gazing at Shattered’s fingers, Jowan’s eyes narrowed.  Ice crystals dotted the pale frozen flesh, joining together in intricate snowflake patterns that twisted across her skin and spiraled upward along her veins.  It had inched up past her elbows, frosting over her sleeve and the breath huffing out between her blue tinged lips hung cold in the air.

            Shuddering, he looked away.  Behind him, he could hear Lily retching the meager contents of her stomach over the frozen bits of a deepstalker. 

            “What happened,” he asked, swallowing around the bile rising in his own throat.

            “I think it’s the focus,” Shattered smiled ruefully, and Jowan could feel her breath chill the air as her words washed over him prickling his skin into goose bumps and sending a shiver down his spine.  “The staff I had in the fade was blue.  A frost crystal.  This one is red – fire attuned,” she tilted her wrist slightly drawing his attention to the fire focus crystal glowing bright and angry at the apex of her staff. 

            “So it backfired,” he asked as he eyed the furious red pulse.

            “I think so,” Sha hissed through her clenched teeth as a tentative pulse of healing magic slowly reversed the damage done to her frozen limbs.  “Just my luck,” she chuckled dryly when her hands had finally thawed enough she could move them without fear of breaking off a finger, “I find the perfect staff as a replacement and it’s my polar opposite.”

            Jowan relaxed slightly as he watched Sha slowly work on healing herself, a slight smile curving the corners of his mouth upward.  “Well, just lay off the ice spells for a little while, okay?”

            “No worries there,” Sha laughed, her hand unclenching from around the staff’s shaft.  Cautiously, she flexed and extended her fingers as she turned her wrist and carefully examined the play of muscles under her skin.  “I think once was more than enough.”

            A great wave of relief washed over Jowan when Sha finally smiled, content that she’d repaired all the damage.  They would be able to continue after all; that was all that mattered to him.  His eyes closed to a half lidded satisfaction.  Shattered may have been restricted from using her cold spells – and she was so completely inept at fire spells they weren’t even an option – but she was still a more than capable healer.  That alone was enough reason to have her with him.  That, and she was so innocent, so naïve that she would never believe the worst about him.  He would get away free and clear while she would stand to face the wrath of the Templars and the Chantry.  His grin widened. 

            “Okay,” Shattered said as she pushed to a stand, “I think I’m -,” she stopped, the words drying up in her throat as she glanced at Jowan.  Her fingers tightened around her staff, clenching convulsively till the knuckles blanched white.  Fear and alarm coursed through her body riding the back of a horse called adrenaline.  And then, just when her conscious mind was registering that something was so very terribly _wrong_ with Jowan, his face changed.  It didn’t so much shift or change expression, but he tilted his head slightly and the flickering light of the enchanted torches hit his features from a different angle and the malicious gaze Sha would have sworn he wore was nothing more than Jowan grinning at her in relief. 

            “I’m so glad,” Jowan replied as he stood and took her hand, squeezing it tightly between his own.  “I was so worried about you,” he glanced over his shoulder where Lily was on her knees leaning against the dusty stone wall as she stared sightlessly into the dilapidated, forgotten library the deepstalkers had emerged from.  “I’m not entirely certain that Lily and I could’ve made it without you by our side,” he glanced shyly through his lashes at Sha as he gave her his most charming smile. 

 

            “Arrg,” Alistair groaned as he unfolded his muscular body and ran the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away sweat that was threatening to sting his eyes.  It did nothing to dispel the shimmering gleam that covered his broad chest and back, small trickles tickling their way across his hard muscles and down over rippling abs as he put his hands to his hips and leaned back to relieve the ach that had settled into his lumbar area.  Even his golden brown hair lay damp and limp against his forehead, which was not how he liked it at all.  With an exasperated sigh, he reached up and ran his fingers through the sweaty locks, pulling them upward in the front in a futile attempt to get his bangs to stay up off his face. 

            As soon as he let go, Alistair’s bangs fell back lifelessly against his brow.  Sighing in defeat, Alistair let his hands drop to his hips, right above the low slung waist band of the dark leather breeches all Wardens wore under their armor.  Tanned fingers splayed across sweaty skin and soft buckskin, reaching more than half way on each side to the buckle holding his breeches up.  He was far from being a small guy, but built lean with strength from years of training – first as a templar and more recently as a Grey Warden – ground into his muscles.  His hands bore the scars and calluses of a man unafraid to work, be it endless sword practice till he could practically feel the thrust and parry in his sleep or hefting an axe to chop firewood, as he was doing now. 

            Turning from his task, Alistair bent to retrieve a canteen of water from the nearby pile of his gear.  When he’d started on the firewood several hours ago, the young Warden had shed his armor and kit in the shade of a nearby tree along with the padded linen undershirt that kept him from chafing against the polished steel of his Warden issued plate armor.  A dark blue caught his attention out of the corner of his right eye, the Grey Warden’s griffon emblem preserved permanently in his flesh with its wings extended overhead and clawed forelegs lifted in defiance.  The tattoo was new; Alistair had barely been with the Wardens for six months and he hadn’t undergone this rite of passage until after his initiation.  The ink bunched and shifted with his skin as Alistair’s deltoid flexed when he reached for the canteen, the meaty shoulder muscle showing off his strength unintentionally.  A small sense of pride filled his chest as he thought about the camaraderie the symbol represented.  The Wardens wanted him to be one of them.  They were his family and should he ever forget it the tattoo would serve as a reminder, proof that no matter where he was he would always be part of something larger.  Even having been in the shade, the water was an unappetizing lukewarm as Alistair tipped his head back and let it slide down his throat while he squinted at the sun.

            A faint scratching at his consciousness made the young Warden grimace as he felt the approach of one of his brothers through the dark taint they all shared.  Capping his canteen, Alistair turned to greet Richu, who smiled and waved as he strode forth. 

            “Still at it then, I see,” Richu stopped with his feet braced shoulder width apart and his arms crossed over his chest a few paces away.  His body was fairly thick for a rogue and didn’t advertise the nimble agility Alistair had come to expect from the man while they sparred for practice.  Like Duncan, Richu was getting close to his calling; they would likely go into the Deep Roads together when the time came for one last battle to the death against the darkspawn.  The handles of the rogue’s twin dragon bone daggers protruded over his shoulders on each side of his head and not for the first time, Alistair wondered if he had gotten the scar that extended from high on his cheekbone across the left side of his face to end at the cleft of his chin on accident by cutting himself when drawing the weapons.  It was a stark white against Richu’s caramel tanned skin and it was distracting.  Very distracting.

            “Yes, well, I’m of the opinion that if I look busy, the Revered Mother will be less likely to enlist me to do her dirty work,” Alistair replied with a faint grin.  The few years he’d spent living with Arl Eamon came out through his speech, the words lilting pleasantly in the manner of an upper class Fereldon noble despite the time spent afterward in the Chantry training to be a templar where the Brothers tried to beat it out of him.  It had all been for his own good, of course, because Templars served the Maker and as such are to give up the trappings of their former station.

            The thing was, Alistair didn’t have a former station. 

            If anything he had only sought harder to retain his speech pattern under the _gentle_ ministrations of the Brothers. So much so that his accent actually became more pronounced from what it had been while living with the Arl.  He was no noble and when it came right down to it, he wasn’t wanted.  By _anyone_.  If the Brothers at the Chantry had realized that, perhaps they wouldn’t have been so insistent.  Arl Eamon, Alistair’s guardian and tutor after his mother died birthing him, had acquiesced to his Orlesian wife, Arlessa Isolde, and shipped Alistair off rather than explain to her that Alistair wasn’t _his_ bastard son, but rather the bastard son of someone else.  Someone much more important.  To be honest, the Chantry didn’t want him either.  Well, not _him_ , not really.  What the Chantry wanted was another mindless templar addicted to lyrium that followed orders without question. 

            Duncan was the only one that had really wanted him.  _Him_ , exactly as he was faults and all.  It had been so thrilling, the rush of elation that had coursed through his body and prickled his skin when the Commander of the Grey had stood up to the Revered Mother and _made_ her give him up.  Even though he hadn’t won the tournament, Duncan had seen something in him that day and he would forever be grateful for being given the chance to actually do some good with the skills he’d been taught.  She had been spitting mad, too, her face a florid pink and her lips pressed into a line so tightly the skin around them had blanched white. 

            “So you decided to chop enough firewood for the entire camp,” Richu questioned with a lifted brow as he ran a critical eye over the growing stacks of split logs. 

            “It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Alistair’s hazel eyes twinkled as the corner of his mouth twisted upward in a smirk.  He was rewarded by a chuckle from Richu. 

            “A messenger arrived a bit ago from the Circle,” Richu informed him the laugh lines still showing on his weathered face despite switching to a more serious topic than Alistair’s avoidance of all things Chantry. 

            “Duncan,” Alistair asked cautiously.  In times when Darkspawn threaten the surface, the Grey Wardens have the right to ask for aid from the Circle Tower and the mages are compelled to give it, regardless of whether the Chantry likes it or not.  The mere dozen or so that had been allowed to join the King’s forces here at Ostagar had been an insult to both King Cailan and the Grey Wardens.  Duncan had been furious.  He’d personally gone to the Circle to rectify the situation; it would be a lot harder to turn away the Commander of the Grey than a messenger or Junior Warden.  In his absence, Duncan had left Richu in charge and it was through him that all correspondence had come. 

            “Things appear to be looking up,” Richu grinned, the scar on the side of his face puckering and twisting with the movement of his cheek.  Alistair tried not to stare.  “We should expect another dozen mages in the next few days.”  There was a smug satisfaction in the words that Richu obviously expected Alistair to share; he was disappointed.  As Alistair’s brow darkened and his lips pulled into a frown, Richu’s grin lessened.

            “No word on when he’ll be coming back,” Alistair couldn’t completely hide the displeasure in his voice. 

            Shrugging, Richu shifted his weight and uncrossed his arms.  One blunt finger found its way into his right nostril and began excavating a booger.  “I imagine he’ll only stay as long as politeness requires of the situation,” Richu’s voice came out slightly muffled as the finger continued to dig.  Alistair turned away so Richu wouldn’t see his grimace of revulsion.  “I wouldn’t worry about it, though,” Richu continued, pulling his digit from his nares and inspecting the impressive glob attached to the end of it.  “The skirmishes we’ve had so far have gone well,” he flicked the booger away. 

            “And the Archdemon hasn’t shown itself yet,” Alistair concluded grimly. 

            “Right,” Richu’s lips thinned out as his mouth pulled into a frown.  “If I didn’t feel it in my blood, I would agree with King Cailan.”

            It was all Alistair could do not to roll his eyes.  As it was, he wasn’t quite able to hold back the snort of derision that passed his lips, to which Richu shot him a warning glance. 

            “He doesn’t know, Alistair,” Richu said softly.  “He can’t feel it the way we do.”  Sighing, Richu ran a hand through his hair.  “I know you think he should be taking the threat more seriously, but the King is supporting us.  Sometimes, that’s more than you can ask for,” the older Warden told him somberly. 

            “I know,” Alistair kicked despondently at an uncut length of wood.  “Just, sometimes…” He trailed off, fist clenched at his side as he stared down at a scattering of wood chips under his feet. 

            “I feel the same way,” Richu assured him.  “But we have to be patient.  Remember, Wardens were only allowed to return to Fereldon twenty years ago.  Our position has been,” he cocked his head to the side as he considered his phrasing, “tenuous, at best,” he said finally.  “Do not doubt, this is a Blight,” Richu reminded him seriously, “but know that until the Archdemon shows itself, those outside the order won’t believe.  We must bide our time and bite our tongues until then.” 

            “Must I really,” Alistair frowned. 

            “Yes, absolutely,” Richu laughed, shaking his head.  “Come on then,” he jerked his head, indicating Alistair was to follow him through the armies gathered at Ostagar toward the Warden’s section of camp. 

            “Is it time for elevenses already,” Alistair asked hopefully.

            “Boy, you’ve missed elevenses,” Richu laughed as he grabbed up Alistair’s linen undershirt and tossed it to him.  “It’s already luncheon.”

            “And no one came to fetch me,” Alistair pouted. 

            “No one told you to chop firewood half the day, either, but that hasn’t stopped you,” Richu snorted. 

            “Point taken,” Alistair sighed as he shrugged into his shirt.  The linen cloth clung gleefully to his wet skin, sticking around his chest in a band. 

            “You’ll definitely need to wash that,” Richu wrinkled his nose, “You smell dreadful.” 

            “Thank you ever so much for such an astute observation,” Alistair replied sarcastically as he tugged the hem of his shirt down and reached for the rest of his equipment.  “And why, might I ask, should I care if you find me smelly?”

            “Because if all goes well, Duncan will be bringing a new recruit back with him from the Tower,” Richu paused to let that sink in.  “A female one,” he added before turning to walk away. 

            Alistair was dumbfound and stood for a moment staring after the other Warden with his mouth drooping slightly open, his tunic hanging forgotten in his hands.  He couldn’t even imagine what a girl in the Wardens would be like.  Not that they didn’t exist, it was just that _he_ had never seen one; not a real live one anyway.  Of course there were paintings of them hanging in the library at the Warden’s compound in Denerim, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember their names or what they’d done to achieve notoriety.  It was likely something like ‘Darned One Thousand Socks’ or some other equally unimportant act that was quickly forgotten in the face of Garahel, the elven Warden who had ended the fourth Blight when he struck the killing blow on the Archdemon Andoral.  Not that he particularly wanted to remember their faces, either.  Some, it would’ve been hard to tell apart from the Darkspawn, their features were so shrewish and severe.  And the eyes – Maker the eyes! – that always seemed to follow you around the room still gave him the willies to the point that he avoided the Warden’s library as much as possible despite his joy of learning and reading. 

            “A recruit from the Circle,” Alistair breathed out quietly, and then grimaced.  If they were from the Circle, then it could only mean either a Mage or a Templar.  Not that he’d seen a great number of female Templars either, but if they had already been inducted into the Order the Chantry was likely to have its claws sunk securely in with the makings of a firm lyrium addiction.  On the other hand if it were a mage…

            With a snort, Alistair tossed his blue and grey Warden tunic over his shoulder and reached for his breast plate.  A chirping noise brought him up short, drawing his attention to a small sparrow perched on the lowest branch his gear had been sitting under.  Between the Darkspawn and the hound master’s pack of Mabari, wildlife had been exceedingly scarce around the camp and this was the first bird he’d seen since his arrival. 

            “Hello, friend,” Alistair said quietly, trying not to startle the little bird.  Slowly, he leaned down and gripped his chest plate between his fingers while keeping his head turned slightly to the side to keep an eye on the sparrow.  It tilted its head and watched him through its small brown eye. 

            “Alistair!  Are you coming or not?  Aedan made your favorite – lamb and pea stew,” Richu called loudly from where he had paused and turned back to see Alistair still standing beside the tree and his stack of firewood. 

            As his name was called, Alistair had instinctively jerked his head to look in the direction Richu’s voice had come from.  Now he glanced back and felt a stab of disappointment to see the sparrow had gone, its small brown form winging away through the skies as it dipped and chirped, providing a small aerial acrobatics display before disappearing off into the pine that lined the edge of the fortress ruins. 

            “Yes, coming,” he called to Richu as he awkwardly gathered his armor and kit together and trotted off to join the senior Warden with his sword’s sheath banging painfully into his calf with each step. 

            Forgotten, the small sparrow darted through the trees, pausing occasionally to cling to a branch or twig, its slim toes clutching at the wood as it gawked at its surroundings.  Assured that it was far from the site of men, the little bird took a moment to preen its feathers before hopping to the ground where it stretched.  Spreading its wings wide, the bird bowed forward till the tiny beak was pressed to its feathered chest and it seemed to fold in on itself while at the same time unfolding into something different, something larger that subsumed the tiny body it had once inhabited. 

            “How very interesting.”  A sly smile curved Flemeth’s lips upward at the corner as she sauntered through the deeper wood that separated the Korcari Wilds from the ruined fortress of Ostagar.  “The dragon’s son returns,” a glimpse of white teeth flashed between maroon painted lips as she tipped her face toward the sun and closed her golden eyes, “and with a much stronger metal at his core than the favored brother.”  A slight breeze lifted her white mane of hair, sending drifting strands to swirl about her face as it whistled past her crown-like pointed head band and through the four curved horns of hair that extended back away from her face, two on each side. 

            “I think I shall enjoy this Blight,” Flemeth smirked. 

 

 


	17. Coming To Light

# 17 – Coming to Light

 

            As soon as the Lothering militia rounded the first bend in the road to Ostagar all illusion of a well-trained group of soldiers fell by the way side.  Out of sight of their family, the formation broke apart.  Its neatly aligned rows of fighters shifted into a gaggling mob that laughed, joked and whined about various things as it flaunted its undisciplined nature.  The majority were content in their belief that King Cailan would summarily crush this unexpectedly large horde of Darkspawn before it could threaten more of Fereldon’s lands than it already had and they would be free to return to their respective homes, each playing the hero to the family they’d left behind, before a fortnight had passed. 

            After all, there had been no sighting of an Archdemon so other than a few Grey Wardens’ belief there was no proof this was a real Blight at all.  And why would they care to believe the Wardens?  Hadn’t it been so long since the last Blight that the bastards themselves might’ve found a ‘spawn pocket and stirred it up just so the Wardens could ride in to the rescue and remind everyone of their existence?  At least, that’s what _Teyrn_ Loghain’s men said and wouldn’t he know?  He was a Teyrn, after all.

            Forcing herself to ignore the prattle of the men around her, Trav grit her teeth and clenched her fist.  Malcolm Hawke had instilled in his children a deep respect for the Grey Wardens, so much so that Trav had wondered on more than one occasion if perhaps their father had personal contact of some kind with the Order.  She knew they wouldn’t throw around words like ‘Blight’ lightly and she would rather take them at their word and assume the worst than think lightly of them and receive an unpleasant surprise.  Every fiber of her being was strung tight as she willed the voices around her into background noise to mingle with the clank of armor and shuffle of feet.  That is, until she heard Carver’s voice rise an octave above the general mutterings that had been easy enough to ignore.

            “And just what the hell are you on about, Snaps?” 

            Trav groaned as she thought of the shifty miller.  The man was a weasel and a cheat, not worth the stink from a mule’s backside.  She could remember more than a few times their father had gotten into what he phrased as _‘heated discussions’_ because Snaps had tried to short them on the extra grain they occasionally sold for coin to purchase the odd item they found themselves needing.  Ever since Malcolm’s death, it had fallen to Trav to trade with the shifty, beady eyed little man.  During their first consultation Snaps had pressed her up against the wall inside the windmill, eagerly fumbling with the leather thong that held his raggedy pants above his thin hips and Trav had knocked two of his front teeth out with a mean right hook when she realized what he intended.  She then told him that if he ever thought about looking at anyone of her family in a manner she didn’t like, she would split him from throat to ball sack and leave him for wolves to find.  To emphasize her point, she’d reached down and gave him a firm squeeze on what passed for his family jewels that sent Snaps to his knees with a howl of pain.  Ever since then, Trav made sure she was never alone with him unless Soul Eater was in handy reach and while Snaps was continually sullen in her presence, he had never offered to lay a hand on her again. 

            He had also never tried to cheat the Hawke family a single copper on their grain again. 

            Just her luck it had been Snaps standing a few paces away from Captain Thomas when she’d had her discussion with him and damn the man if he wasn’t going to try using the information to either stir up trouble, or get out of work.  Possibly both.  It wouldn’t matter to him that Trav had signed a devil’s deal when she’d made the agreement with Thomas, trading Carver’s safety guarding the rear for her own peril by ‘volunteering’ for double duty and any dangerous scouting missions the militia was ordered to undertake. 

            Thomas hadn’t been happy about it.  He knew, out of all the members of the militia, Trav was the most serious when it came to training in the warrior’s art of combat.  Besides his confidence in her abilities, Travisty also had that ridiculous sword that could cut through just about anything which stacked the odds in her favor.  Thomas had tried to buy it once only to have her laugh in his face, much to his resentment.  However, since the passing of Malcolm, he had grudgingly forgiven her as it was one of only a few mementos the man had left behind.  The tanner wasn’t stupid, though; he knew that if they truly did get in the shit, whoever was on the same squad as Trav had a much better chance of survival.  He had planned to assign Trav to his squad, but in the end gave in to her request, deciding it was better to pass off any of his dangerous tasks to her under the guise of their deal while he stayed with Carver at the army’s camp in Ostagar to ‘watch over’ him. 

            By the sound of Snaps’ voice complaining behind her, he wasn’t too happy about her deal with Thomas either.

            “I’m just saying,” his voice took on a wheedling tone, “That in times like this, men have to stick together, you read me?” 

            Travisty couldn’t see Carver’s face without turning, but she could practically hear him rolling his eyes as her brother didn’t respond, indicating that he most definitely did _not_ read Snaps.

            “You need to know someone is watching your back, that they’ve got you covered.”

            “Riiight,” Carver drawled, and Trav brought her closed fist up and coughed into her hand to keep from laughing.  “And I’m to believe that you’ll be there?  Right behind me making sure some creepy Darkspawn doesn’t sneak up behind me and lop off my head?”

            The other conversations had lulled, Trav realized, leaving the creek of leather and jangle of metal as undertones to Carver and Snaps discussion.  Beside her, Carver snorted.

            “Snaps, if I could pick between a Darkspawn watching my back and you, I’d choose the Darkspawn,” Carver retorted and a chorus of laughter broke out among the other militia men and women. 

            The color rose in Snaps’ cheeks and his eyes bugged outward slightly as the jeers of his peers washed over him.

            “You just wait, _Hawke_ ,” Snaps sneered at Carver, “We’ll see who has the last laugh.”  And with that Snaps shoved himself away from Carver, pushing through the loose mob of fighters and off the side of the King’s Highway, a rundown section of the Imperial Highway built by the Tevinters that stretched clear to their capital in Minrathous, and into the forest that lined the road. 

            In its prime, the Tevinter Imperium had controlled the lands south of its capitol clear to Ostagar and the Imperial Highway was built for safety and ease of transporting goods across the country.  The King’s Highway, or King’s Way as the lower class referred to it, had never quite been finished as it extended south past Lothering to the farthest reaches of the Imperium.  While parts of the entire thoroughfare had fallen into disrepair, King’s Way had never been entirely finished.  Where the Imperial Highway uniformly rose above the surrounding land giving its travelers a majestic view of their surroundings as they traveled its elevated granite setts at their leisure, the King’s Way was little more than a swath that had been cut through the wood. 

            “Bloody bullocks,” Thomas yelled from ahead as he stopped, hands planted on his hips as he stared after Snaps. 

            “We goin’ after ‘im, Cap’n,” Dack asked as he nervously shifted his weight and glanced at the forest.  Just past the first row of trees encroaching on King’s Way, darkness shrouded the foliage in a thick mask that left little to be seen and much to the imagination.  Dack glanced at Captain Thomas apprehensively and scuffed his toe against a rock that stuck up from the hard packed dirt of the road.  A farmer’s son, he had what little arms and armament his family had been able to scrounge up when the call came for the militia to report to Ostagar, but what he had he wore proudly if inexpertly.  Even cleaned to a dull shine, the breastplate and shoulder guards looked old enough to have been worn in the Exalted Marches during the fourth age and they didn’t match his greaves at all. 

            “Worthless scourge,” Thomas spat, then waved a hand over his head to round up the fighters still gawking after Snaps.  “We’ll rest here,” he said, his brow furrowed and thick lips pulled into a frown.  “If the stupid arse isn’t back by the time we’ve caught our breaths, he can go hump a Blight Wolf for all I care.” 

            A wave of snickers passed through the group as the men and women broke apart, congregating in groups of three or four as they passed canteens around and talked of the weather, or the crop outlook, or anything it seemed except the fighting they would be doing at Ostagar.  Apparently, they’d all had enough talk about _that_ and were keeping their thoughts and fears to themselves, buried under the mundane day to day activities of farmers and craftsmen. 

            “Travisty,” Carver hissed from beside her and Trav sighed as she wiped her mouth against the leather strap securing her steel bracer to her arm before turning to hand him the canteen she’d just been drinking from.  He ignored the gesture, preferring to glare at her from beneath hooded brows. 

            “What is it, Carver,” Trav tried to keep the exasperation from her voice as she stowed her canteen. 

            “Just exactly what the hell was Snaps talking about,” he replied stepping closer so their shoulders nearly touched as they stood at an angle to each other with his face leaned in close enough that Trav could smell the stink of last night’s drink still on his breath as he hissed the words low enough no one else would hear. 

            “Carver,” Trav sighed as she reached up and ran a hand through her hair. 

            “Don’t you ‘ _Carver_ ’ me,” he hissed, reaching out to clasp her wrist in a tight grip. 

            A dangerous look entered Trav’s eyes as she glanced down at his hand and then into his face making Carver rethink if he was going to be able to keep his hand and he released her, taking a step backward in startlement. 

            “If you really must know, _little_ brother,” Trav said to him in an icy tone, “I promised Bethany I would keep your ungrateful ass alive and to make sure that happens I’ve made sure you’ll be guarding the rear while I take double duty,” she told him.

            “Oh well that’s just great,” Carver threw his hands up in the air then planted them on his hips as he shook his head.  “This is just like you, you know?  Always stepping in, always coddling me.  You never let me do anything on my own and you always take all the credit,” his voice had started getting louder and his face was flushing a bright red as anger coursed through his veins. 

            “You know what,” Trav started through grit teeth, but she was cut off by a keening shriek from the woods that froze everyone as it raised the hair on the backs of their necks.  Thirty pairs of eyes were wide as they stared at the trees searching for the source of the noise, yet unwilling to actually breech the darkness and come face to face with a creature that could make such a sound as that. 

            “I sees someth’n,” Dack choked out, his hand wavering as he pointed toward the trees. 

            The keening sound continued, broken here and there by hysterical sobs.  The noise grate against Trav’s nerves and she grit her teeth as she unconsciously reached over her shoulder to grip Soul Eater’s handle firmly against her palm.  Even touching the mighty sword had a calming effect on her and she settled into a defensive stance, the sword still in its harness at her back for the moment. 

            Peering into the dense undergrowth, a figure could be seen thrashing its way toward them and though Captain Thomas called out for them to stand fast, Trav couldn’t help but smirk as she noticed him scuttle to the far side of King’s Way, putting the thirty-three men and women Lothering had been able to field for King Cailan between himself and whatever was floundering toward them through the overgrowth of brush.   

            “Carver,” Trav called out in a near bellow as she pulled Soul Eater forth, the hair on the back of her neck still standing up.  The figure was running from the same direction Snaps had disappeared.  The miller was most certainly _not_ a brave man, but Lothering had its fair share of bears, wolves and the like.  Something was screaming at her that whatever had set Snaps running was not the ordinary wilderness fare. 

            Looking at her, Carver opened his mouth once and she found herself thinking that of course he was going to question her now when it was probably the most important thing for the love of the Maker that he just _listen_ to her and not be such a pig headed stubborn fool.  But then he thought better of himself and his jaws snapped closed with a click as he pulled forth his greatsword and stood at her side. 

            Settling into a protective stance, Trav held Soul Eater point down angled across her body with the sharpened tip resting against the ground while the foot and a half long grip lay against her right forearm.  The flat of the blade was nearly a foot across and more than once Carver had seen her use it like it was a shield, stunning her opponent by turning the blade and slamming against them. 

            Even someone as big as Travisty with her five foot eleven inch frame could find adequate cover behind the five foot blade by turning sideways to present a smaller target, which is what she did now as she adopted a slightly crouched posture behind Soul Eater with her right knee braced against the sword while her left leg extended slightly backward to increase stability.  Her left hand tightly gripped her hilt near the pommel, giving the leverage she would need to twist or swing her blade as the need arose.  Their father had once commented that she reminded him of a bull in that moment right before it charged when its head was lowered and its body trembled with power and for a time Carver had teased her when she practiced swordplay by calling her just that.

            Once Travisty had decided to adopt that very term for her stance, it had ceased being amusing. 

            Snaps tripped as he came to the edge of the forest, falling face first into the waist high weeds that lined the Way, yet even having made it back to the road the high keening still poured from his throat.  Pushing up, the scrawny miller scrambled to his feet, nearly falling again in his haste as he struggled forward before he’d even gotten his balance.  Eyes wide with terror, Snaps darted through the gathered militia without even slowing as he sprinted across the road and dove into the growth on the other side. 

            “Well, don’t that beat all,” Thomas said in a shaky voice as he wiped at the sweat that was dotting his forehead with the back of his gauntlet. 

            “Should we go after him,” Dack asked as he turned to Thomas, his voice still cracking with fright.

            Beside her, Trav sensed more than saw Carver relax as he dropped his fighting posture and made a rude gesture in the direction Snaps had run.  “Sodding fool,” he muttered.  But the excitement wasn’t quite over yet.

            Eyes still trained in the direction Snaps had come from, only Travisty noticed the hulking dark shapes that lumbered toward them.  She opened her mouth to shout a warning that never made it past her lips as the first Darkspawn lurched from the darkness and was already across the road standing at the spot Snaps had disappeared into the trees before it paused.  The militia had frozen, eyes widened with horror at the sight of the thing.  It stood with its back to them, lips pealed back from its pointy teeth in what might’ve passed for a morbid grin while the gangrenous, malformed nostrils flared as it sniffed the air all set in a face that looked as though it belonged to a walking corpse that was still in the gooey stages or rot. 

            Now that it had stopped, the beast’s movements seemed jerky and confused, nothing like the blur it had been as it passed through the cluster of humans standing on the road.  It turned, with teeth gnashing and head twitching to the side so that dark, ichor-stained spittle flew from its mouth and dribbled down its chin. 

            “Captain,” Dack whispered, “do you think we should -,” but he never finished, the words lost in a burble as blood started pouring from his mouth.  Surprise lit his boyish features as Dack touched his dripping chin with his fingers and then looked at the tips as they came back stained a bright red. 

            Standing next to him, Thomas stared in morbid fascination as a red line spread across the youth’s throat.  A gurgling bubble broke from Dack’s lips and he stumbled a single step forward toward Captain Thomas with his blood stained hand wavering in front of him as he reached for the man that was supposed to lead them.  The movement jostled whatever gossamer thread had been holding him together and a fountain of red sprayed forth from the line at his throat, catching Thomas right in the face.  The spray lessened as Dack fell to his knees, his body having vigorously pumped his blood onto Thomas where it coated his face and chest, dripping in rivulets across his armor to pool at his feet.  Constitution pushed beyond his normal limits, Thomas bent at the waist and braced his hands against his knees before hurling the partially digested remains of his breakfast onto the ground in front of Dack’s unseeing eyes. 

            That was the moment the militia unfroze and a battle cry rose amongst them as they mobbed forward toward the Darkspawn that planted its feet to meet them with a grinning rictus that stretched wider as it raised a wicked looking dagger that dripped red with what must’ve been Dack’s blood.  Not a one thought to watch their backs and Trav’s jaw tightened as it became apparent that of the thirty-two that remained, it would be only her and Carver that weren’t so caught up in vengeance that they would see the ambush coming. 

            With a grunt, Carver looked to his sister and followed her gaze into the trees before letting out a string of curses that would make their mother blush before she cuffed him on the ear when he saw the shadowy forms lumbering toward them. 

            The militia was lucky.  In the end, the ‘spawn they encountered couldn’t have been much more than a scouting party.  Between the genlock with the pointy teeth that had been chasing Snaps, and the three hurlocks that burst from the underbrush to meet Trav and Carver head on, the battle was short but bloody.  In the end, they had lost seven of their number before the Darkspawn were cut down.  Of the remaining twenty-six, three were wounded. 

            The majority of the group’s fatalities could be attributed to the genlock.  Surrounded by inexperienced peasants, some with little more than pitchforks and bits of leather held together with twine, the monstrosity had set about slashing away with a malicious glee at the fighters surrounding it.  Of the three hurlock, a larger more human sized form of Darkspawn unlike their shorter genlock cousins, the first was met with the flat of Soul Eater’s blade as Trav grunted and pulled back on the pommel with her left hand until her wrist was at her ear and all of her weight was behind the swing.  Stunned as it was, Carver had no trouble lopping its head neatly off with an easy swing that passed over his sister’s head as she fell back into the slightly crouched position of the previously dubbed ‘Bull’ stance.

            Seeing their comrade fall, the remaining two hurlocks approached in a slightly more cautious manner.  Readying their blades, the two crept forward, teeth snapping inside the rotted, blackened flesh of their faces.  Swinging her right leg back, Trav tipped Soul Eater in front of her so instead of the flat of the blade, she was now presenting the oncoming foes with a razor sharp edge.  Shifting her grip so that both thumbs were pointed to the shoulder of her steel just below where the width contracted into the tang that joined hilt and blade, Travisty pivoted slightly to present her left side to the Darkspawn as she lifted her sword to shoulder height and pointed the tip at the oncoming Darkspawn. 

            Her shoulder muscles flexed and quivered with anticipation as she pulled her elbow back past her ear but having worked at the smithy since she was thirteen, Trav was able to hold the eight pounds of steel still, the laughing skulls engraved on the blade’s ricasso grinning next to her head where they joined the intricately designed fuller that swirled across the sword’s surface.  A twisting of vines grew from the laughing skulls to race upwards toward the tip, branching off into elegant whorls studded with thorns and the occasional unopened rosebud.  At the tip, where only a single branch reached, an intricate impression of a rose blooming as big as a fist graced the blade.  Having such an extensively ornate fuller had actually been a bit of a necessity; without it, Soul Eater would’ve weighed well over twelve pounds at a low estimate.  Malcolm had been particularly impressed with the artistry Travisty had put into the design, chuckling as he told her how he thought it fitting for beauty to come in the wake of death. 

            Next to her Carver had affected a more relaxed stance, but then Carver was more relaxed about everything.  He expected fame and glory to be handed to him on a silver platter and whined incessantly when it was not.  His feet braced shoulder width apart, the toe of one foot aligned with the heel of the other for greater stability, Carver gripped his sword firmly with both hands even though he held it cocked downward and to the right.  Cries of pain and determined shouts sounded from the militia still focused on the genlock as Carver and Travisty stepped forward to meet the two remaining hurlocks. 

            They may not have gotten along very well, but their father had trained them well and in things that Travisty had never quite been sure he should even know, what with his being a mage and all.  Like a well-oiled machine, the siblings worked in tandem.  One would feint while the other struck or one would block while the second attacked.  Despite Carver’s brash statements to Bethany about Travisty before they left Lothering, it was actually he that landed the killing blow on both beasts – a fact that he was far too pleased about and would be sure to over exaggerate at every chance he got.  This was a story that would be sure to help the boy curry favor with some of the local maidens when Carver retold the tale in the safety of Dane’s Refuge and Trav had no doubt that with each telling both the Darkspawn would get more ferocious, and she would get more inept. 

            When the dust settled, the militia turned to Thomas looking for guidance but the man still stood where he’d been sprayed by Dack’s blood, his eyes wide with horror and his jaw slack as he stared at the boy’s corpse.  A small trickle of spittle still clung to his chin as it stretched its way toward the ground to join whatever gruel had passed for the tanner’s breakfast. 

            More than a child yet still less than a man, Dack looked much smaller in death than he had in life.  His body did nothing to fill out the ancient armor he’d been so excited to wear and if not for the cooling pool of blood that was congealing around him – as well as on Captain Thomas – one might have mistaken him for a kid that had played soldier until he’d tuckered himself out. 

            Travisty swallowed grimly at the foul stench rising from the hurlocks’ corpses and pulled a rag from her waist pouch to wipe down Soul Eater.  Even in practice she kept a scrap of cloth handy, soft and clean, to use on her sword before stowing it at her back in a carry harness.  More than once she’d been made the butt of jokes for the practice, but as a blacksmith she knew just exactly what kind of damage a weapon could get from neglect or misuse.  She had seen it plenty of times when an ignorant villager had failed to clean their skinning knife before stowing it and the next time it was needed, the blade would be stuck in the scabbard either to corroded or gunked up with dried blood to be pulled free and she would be damned before Soul Eater suffered the same fate.  Tip resting on the ground, Travisty eyed the ‘spawn blood that had seeped into the fuller, turning the striking vines grotesque with its twisted blackness.  In all honestly, she thought it looked beautiful in a deadly sort of way.  But blood was blood and Darkspawn blood was probably worse than most so with infinite care, she began cleaning the blade as black blood trickled down the vines to drip from steel rose petals into the dirt. 

            The weary, terrified, crying and injured clustered around Thomas.

            “What do we do, Captain,” was the magical question on all their lips and Thomas didn’t have an answer.  He stood staring at the ring of faces with his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, blood still thick and congealing in his hair and on his face.

            “I think,” Travisty said, voice raised slightly to carry over the growing murmurs of the militia as she put away her rag and slung Soul Eater across her back, “that we should see to our wounded.  Maybe get these freaks off the road,” she nudged one of the ‘spawn with the toe of her boot, “and collect our dead.”  As she finished speaking, Travisty turned a bland gaze in Thomas’s direction and blinked slowly as she watched his mouth work a few more times before her words seemed to sink in and he straightened himself a little before he began to issue orders. 

            It didn’t take long till everyone was in motion; some tended their wounded, others misusing their weapons to hack at branches so a litter could be built for the dead and it had fallen to Trav and Carver to try to move the dead ‘spawn off the road.  The unfortunate duo gripped the creature’s limbs and half carried, half drug them off to the side and began piling them up.  As Carver chattered on from his position holding the legs, Travisty would’ve sworn she could feel the flesh under her fingers slip and for a brief, terrifyingly gruesome moment, thought for sure that the thing’s arm was going to pull loose from the socket or, even worse, the flesh was going to slough right off the bone leaving her holding a rotted glove of meat while the bare bones dangled limply to the ground.  It was more than enough to send a shudder through her frame and a gagging noise caught in her throat were it tried to erupt with her breakfast.  But Travisty swallowed it down and the pair slung their burden atop the other bodies in the gooey, stinking mound.  Ichor leaked from the forms, covering the surrounding ground in a black, slimy film that made Trav’s skin prickle just looking at it.

            “Ugh,” Carver grimaced as he looked down.

            “Yeah,” Trav breathed out, looking at her gauntlet and wishing she had a clean bucket of water to start cleaning with, “They are pretty nasty.”

            “Not that,” Carver grumbled.  “I got some on my boot.”

            Looking down, Trav noted that there was indeed a spot of black smudged across the top of his foot and she couldn’t help but sigh.  _Everything_ was _always_ about Carver.

 

            Now that the blood seal locations were known, the next set of sentinels fell easily despite Shattered’s restriction from her favored school of magic.  Ice being out of the question, and fire temperamental at best, Sha focused on healing Lily and Jowan while they took on the burden of facing the enchanted armors.  A soft green aura emanated from the crystal focus as Sha raised her staff overhead allowing the healing magic to infuse the air around them as it drifted slowly downward in rippling circles, dust motes glittering as they danced in the ephemeral light like tiny fairies.  Shattered found a bit of irony in it, as she glanced at the crystal still glowing an angry, dull red despite the cool soothing magic radiating from it.

            Lily cried out and the glittering light settled gently against her skin.  She hissed as the sliced flesh knit back together with barely a scar to mark the spot a sentinel had gotten past her guard.  With a murmur of thanks, she whirled and slipped under the sentinel’s swinging reach before sliding around behind it and slipped her rusty sword in the gap between helm and breast plate to flip it forward.  Metal rang against stone, echoing in their narrow confines as the head piece rolled toward Shattered’s feet where she caught it and held it in place with her foot before swiping at the seal with the bladed tip of her staff. 

            Immediately, the sentinel fell to the floor in a clatter of empty pieces of armor. 

            “Good show,” Jowan called from an open door to the left as Sha paused to wipe the sweat that dotted her forehead from trickling into her eyes.  In the depths of the Tower, buried by earth and rock, the air was cool, if a little damp.  Yet despite the chill of the air, the constant fighting and casting was leaving Shattered dripping with sweat and shaking with fatigue.  A spike of irritation went through her as she realized that while she and Lily had been risking their lives fighting the latest group of sentinels, Jowan had safely been looking through moldy books and dilapidated furniture in one of the side rooms. 

            “Yes, well, a little bit of help would’ve been nice,” she couldn’t help the snappish tone she took with him and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to try to calm her shaking limbs. 

            “You seemed to have it under control,” he shrugged and stepped around her to take the lead.

            Together, the three moved down the dusty hall and Lily made a face as she glanced at a spider web some industrious arachnid had made stretching from the vaulted ceiling to a corner next to a door.  Smirking at her discomfort, Jowan spread his fingers and ran them over the web breaking the gossamer strands and leaving them to float in the air to tickle Sha and Lily as they ducked through the doorway following him. 

            They nearly ran into him on the other side where he had stopped, frozen in place, the grin wiped from his face.

            “What is it,” Lily asked a little breathlessly. 

            Shattered swiped the web strands from her hair and face as she glanced past Jowan’s shoulder and her whole body stiffened involuntarily.  “Dungeons,” she hissed the words past clenched teeth.  But this wasn’t the regular dungeons, the ones were Anders spent so much time after his escape attempts.  This was an older, forgotten section of the Tower and the cells had fallen into disrepair. 

            Garbage and detritus littered the floor, evidence this section of the Tower’s basement had seen long years of neglect.  Tendrils of black mold crept up the stone walls in a twisted parody of veins, pumping corruption and putrescence through the Tower as it fed off of the decay surrounding them.  Looking at their surroundings Sha swallowed with a dry click, thankful that any lingering maleficent odors had been lost to dust long since.  Even glancing past the rusted iron bars into the cell was enough to turn her stomach as she glimpsed the piles of dirty rags that did nothing to cover the skeletons they had once clothed; Sha was certain she would’ve been retching on the floor if there had been an accompanying smell. 

            People had died down here.  _Mages_ had died down here; left to watch one another wither from neglect as their bodies ate away at themselves, possibly for no other reason than having been born a mage.  They chose starvation over the promises of freedom from the demons that had surely whispered in their ears.  It set her blood to boiling, steeling her nerves, and when Jowan faltered, dithering at the entrance as though they actually had a choice to turn back now, she brushed past both of her companions and strode between the locked cells without sparing another glance to either side. 

            “That’s just so horrible,” Lily shuddered, her voice wavering as they passed out of the cell cluster without further incident.

            Her lips pressed into a tight line, Shattered narrowed her eyes as she glanced both directions in the corridor they now found themselves in.  “I like to think,” she said coldly, “that Knight-Commander Greagoir would never allow such a fate to befall his charges.”

            “What are you trying to say,” Lily’s eyes rounded with a dawning fear as she stared at Sha, deliberately trying _not_ to think the worst despite what they’d already seen in the Tower’s basement. 

            “Who, _besides_ the Knight-Commander, would have the authority to order a mage locked up,” Sha couldn’t stop her lip from curling in distaste. 

            “The, umm, Grand Cleric, of course, or the, umm, Circle’s Revered Mother.”  Lily stopped with a small gasp, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.  “You’re not saying…”

            “No,” Shattered sighed and pushed a few sweat sticky strands of hair back from her face.  “I’m not saying that our _current_ Revered Mother or Grand Cleric had anything to do with the atrocities that have taken place here,” she gestured to the heavy oak door closed behind them, “I’m simply saying that someone from the Chantry at some point decided it was a good idea to forget about their prisoners and leave them to a horrible, inhumane death,” her jaw muscles tightened, clenching her teeth together till she thought they would break.  “Someone up high enough in the Chantry’s hierarchy that whichever Templars were ordered to do such a deed never told their own commander so that the bodies could be properly disposed of.”

            A combination of horror and revulsion filled Lily as Shattered’s words sunk in till she had to bite down on her own fist to keep from sobbing openly. 

            “Don’t worry, Lily,” Jowan’s hand was warm as he squeezed her shoulder in an offering of comfort.  “We are almost there; I can feel it!  And then, we’ll be free.  Both of us, and you won’t have to face those monsters again.”  A gentle expression graced his face as he looked down at her and Lily gave him a wavering smile in return.  Shattered’s eyes had caught movement to the left in the corridor and so she missed the malevolent smirk that bloomed across Jowan’s face when Lily turned from him. 

            “Speaking of monsters,” Sha commented dryly as she slowly reached for her staff, “we have more company.”  Now that she had brought their attention to it, the ringing clang of empty mail could be heard echoing to them as it bounced off of the stone walls with each step the sentinels made.  As one unit, the four armors marched toward them, giving the impression of a group of puppets directed by one masterful puppeteer.  All that was needed was someone to cut the strings. 

 

            The first pink streaks of sunset had long since faded from the sky giving way to the deeper oranges, reds and finally indigo that smeared together over the thick pines that lined the road to Lothering heralding the end of another day before the Templars called a halt to their journey.  They had made fantastic time, getting much farther than Anders had anticipated when they’d set out from the Circle earlier that day.  It was all thanks to the mages having kept a haste spell up since leaving Calenhad Docks.  Of course magic exists to serve man and never rule over him, that job is left up to the Chantry and the Templars which was exactly why the other mages had scrambled to comply when, upon leaving behind the sight of Kinloch Hold, one of their more burly jailers had pointed at a young man saying _‘This is boring.  You there, make us faster’_.  It didn’t seem to matter that the mage he had assigned the task didn’t know the required spell, so long as it was accomplished and so the mages who _did_ know it had started up a rotation to sustain the group at its swift pace along the way without letting any one mage overexert themselves and become fatigued. 

            Anders had stopped paying attention to who was doing the upkeep hours ago, having decided that he wasn’t really sure what Godwin’s specialty was and being unwilling to risk that someone present might know if he shouldn’t be able to perform the Creation spell speeding them along it was better to just do nothing. 

            Regardless, stopping was a relief.  From the first signs the sun was setting, Anders’s nerves had been ratcheting tighter with each passing moment as he wondered just exactly _when_ Godwin’s potion would be wearing off.  He’d taken to tugging at the mouse brown bangs that hung over his forehead to check if they were indeed still the correct color or if they were reverting back to his own sandy blond.  So far, the color was holding, but he doubted that would remain true for much longer so when the call to make camp was heard, a great wave of relief washed over him. 

            Eyes shifting over the Templars as they began settling their things, Anders smiled.  Though he detested Templars in general, a few of the Chantry’s lap dogs chafed under the rule of the religious order just as much as he did.  Drass was one of them and here the man stood, already half out of his armor and back a few paces from the his brothers in the Order as he stretched his shoulders.  A quick tug at his bangs showed Anders that the potion was still in effect before he hurried over the Drass. 

            It was obvious Drass saw him approach but the Templar still turned his back to Anders before he was close enough to start talking.  Finally, his stretching done, Drass sighed and turned back.  “What is it, Godwin?”

            “I have to go,” Anders said.  It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only thing he could come up with that would get him away from the camp, even if it meant a single Templar escort. 

            Drass made a face.  “Can’t it wait?  We’ve not even set up camp yet.”

            “No it can’t,” he insisted.  “I’ve been holding it in since we crossed River Dane and I can’t hold it anymore.” 

            “I don’t suppose it’s number one,” Drass grimaced as Anders shook his head.  “Fine,” he relented gesturing toward the foliage just past the edge of the camp being constructed around them, “Let’s get this over with.”

            Just after passing into the trees, Drass stopped and crossed his arms, feet braced apart.  “This is as far as I go,” he grunted. 

            “You want me to go?  Right here?”  Anders widened his eyes, hoping he was pulling off an appropriately scandalized countenance.  “You want to watch?”

            “No, Holy Maker,” a repulsed expression crossed Drass’s features, his brow furrowing and lip curling upward in disgust.  “Whatever would make you think that?”  He gestured with one hand toward an area of thicker underbrush.  “Go over there,” he instructed.  “But leave your staff here; wouldn’t do to have you running off all willy-nilly casting spells about like some fool moron giving the Circle a bad name.” 

            Trying to look hesitant about parting with Godwin’s staff, Ander’s handed it over.  His own was locked away in First Enchanter Irving’s office where it was placed when he was returned to the Tower and, while he would miss it, he hoped to never see it again because that would mean he’d once again been caught.  Having Godwin’s stave had all been part of the disguise and this was actually an unexpectedly ironic way to return it to him.  Templars could be so silly sometimes, Anders mused as he carefully picked his way over to the brush Drass had indicated.  A mage didn’t really _need_ a staff to cast spells – it just made the casting easier to have something to focus on and channel power through but even that wasn’t restricted to being a stave.  It could be nearly anything – during one escape, he’d used a wooden ladle stolen from the kitchen of a farmer’s wife to channel a few spells and while the result hadn’t been as intended it had certainly been interesting.

            Having reached the far side of the brush, Anders glanced carefully through the leaves, gauging how much could be viewed through them.  It wouldn’t do for the Templar to be able to _see_ him walking away and while the excuse of having to relieve himself might only give him a few minutes those few minutes were exactly what he needed. 

            “Oh Maker,” Anders groaned as though in pain and rustled the leaves of a bush.  “I feel like I’m giving birth!”

            An amused snort came from the direction he’d left Drass in.  “Just hurry up, mage.  I am not in the mood to set up my tent in the dark.”  As it was, the depths of twilight, along with the heavy green leaves of the appointed bush were making it nearly impossible to view what was on the other side. 

            Confident that Drass would give him at least 5 minutes more before approaching the spot he believed his ward to be in, Anders smiled thinly to himself and, crouched low, slipped through the trees into the ever increasing darkness of the deeper forest.  He didn’t straighten until he had put several hundred yards between himself and his last known location, long enough to assure he wouldn’t be seen by Drass when the Templar finally circled the brush and came to look for him.  When he stood, he broke into a long, loping stride, weaving through the trees and vaulting fallen logs as he rushed south east.  The plan was to pass by Lothering on the north, perhaps close enough to pilfer a few articles of clothing and rid himself of Godwin’s robes that just screamed _‘I’m a mage!  Call the Templars!’_ , and then cross over the West Road to Drakon River.  Following it east would keep him out of sight of the road, while keeping him close enough he would be able to see a Templar hunting party miles before they came upon him. 

            The Drakon flowed right past South Reach, and once there it would be an easy task to find a trading caravan traveling north to Denerim that could use an extra hand to help with the horses or for security against bandits.  And then it would be all the drink and whores he could handle.  His smile faded slightly as Anders recalled the whole reason he was set to lose himself in whisky and women to begin with and he picked up his pace. 

 

            Despite her misgivings about their mission, Sha found herself enjoying exploring the repository of magical artifacts the trio currently found themselves in.  The place was packed with idols, tomes, trinkets and statuary.  The scholar in her, ever thirsting for more knowledge, hoped that she might convince Irving to allow her to study some of the relics.  She was particularly interested in Eleni Zinovia, the soul trapped inside a statue by Archon Valerius when she foretold the ruin of his house. 

            Eleni had seemed resigned, if not content, with her situation.  She spoke of how being made stone was both her doom and her destiny.  That was not all she had to say, though.  Sha frowned as she slid down to the floor, leaning her back against a stone mabari.  The great war hound rested on its haunches, ears pricked and ever alert for the sound of an intruder.  Hesitantly, Sha reached out and patted it on the head, murmuring ‘good dog’, just in case, like Eleni, the mabari had once been made of flesh and bone. 

            She found herself pondering the prophetess’s words as she absently stroked the stone head.  Before Eleni had stopped speaking, she made a very cryptic statement and though Jowan had chosen to laugh it off with a joke, to Shattered it sounded more like foreshadowing.  That was, after all, the crime that had turned her to stone and sent her through time to begin with.  Resting against the mabari, Sha examined Eleni’s words again, turning them over in her head while Jowan and Lily struggled to move a bookcase leaning against the wall they thought the phylactery chamber to be behind. 

            _“Child, weep not for me.  I am made of stone and as such, shall endure – eternal and unfeeling.  It is I who would weep for you.  Your journey is just begun, but it will be blackened from beginning to end.  Those you call ‘friend’ will wield the knife that strikes the deepest.”_

            Once she had finished speaking, Eleni stopped responding and Sha still hadn’t decided if the relaying of prophecy had exhausted the spirit, or if the deep sorrow she felt settling over the statue was too much for a soul to communicate through.  Lily had gone into hysterics, raving about how the Circle should’ve smashed Eleni to pieces instead of keeping such a thing that could spew curses at those passing by to which Jowan had again cited the hypocrisy of the Chantry, but Sha got the feeling that Eleni had been staring – as much as a stone statue can stare, anyway – at her while speaking, as if the other two held no interest for the soul trapped within the figure. 

            “There, see,” Jowan’s triumphant voice brought her back to herself and Sha glanced up from her sitting position to see him grinning at the wall behind the bookcase.  “You can tell there used to be a doorway here and see the mortar is crumbling.  It was likely put in years after the original construction of the tower.  The dwarves would be furious,” he winked at Sha, as though she would know what the dwarves would think of humans meddling with their construction. 

            “Are you sure this is wise,” the words slipped out before Shattered could stop them, before she even knew that she was thinking them, but the effect was immediate. Jowan’s face darkened and the joking expression he’d worn only a moment before disappeared in the thunderhead of rage that welled up in its place.

            “Now is not the time to be second guessing, Shattered.  You’ve come this far, you _will_ finish this with us,” Jowan’s voice rumbled over her, low and dangerous sending a shiver across her skin as though snakes writhed through the air on his words, ghosting their touch across her flesh.

            “Of course,” Sha spoke quietly as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself. 

            “Good,” Jowan smiled at her, all charm and cheer once more, spinning Shattered’s head with confusion as her stomach roiled.  Turning back to examining the section of wall the he had noticed, Jowan put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side.  “Now we just need to find a way to knock this down.” 

            He stroked his chin as if pondering something and Sha pushed herself to a stand, reaching back to brush dust from her backside that had been picked up from the growing collection on the repository floor.

            “Can’t you guys just,” Lily waved a hand at the stone blocks, “blow it up or something?  Use your magic to knock it inward?”

            “Technically, yes.  We could,” Jowan huffed.  “That is, if we wanted to risk setting off any one of these artifacts.  I mean, who knows what most of them do anyway and with the years they’ve had down here to destabilize…The results of even a simple spell could have disastrous effects.” 

            “There’s still the rod of fire, right,” Lily questioned as she twisted her hands together in front of her. 

            “Well yeah, but one little rod of fire isn’t going to be able to knock down a wall all on its own,” Jowan crossed his left arm over his chest, raising his right to rest his chin against his thumb while his first two fingers curled across his cheek as he thought.  He glanced side ways to where Shattered stood, her slender frame sagging slightly with fatigue as she rest her hand on the stone mabari’s head. 

            A calculated grin spread slowly across his face. 

            “Shattered!  You’re brilliant, you beautiful creature!”  Striding over toward the startled girl Jowan wrapped his arms around her and picked her up, spinning her around fully twice before setting her back on her feet and kneeling next to the mabari.  He reached out a hand to touch it, making Sha shrink back in confusion. 

            “I – I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she stuttered. 

            “I remember seeing these in some of the text books,” he excitedly continued, ignoring her and Lily’s hopeful look.  “It’s an amplifier, one they used in ancient Tevinter.  We can use it with the rod of fire to break apart the blocks and get into the phylactery chamber.” 

            Swiftly rising to a stand, he turned toward Sha and held out his hand.  “Quickly, give me the rod,” he said impatiently but something held her back, her hand curling over her breast bone. 

            There was a dangerous gleam in his eye that gave her pause.  Instinct sent a chill across her skin, prickling it into gooseflesh as surely as a rabbit sensing the gaze of a fox as it watched its prey with hungry eyes and slavering jowls.   Without thinking about it, Sha’s fingers found the rod of fire where it rested, slipped through a loop of the sash at her waist.  They clenched around the handle until her knuckles turned white. 

            A flash of irritation darkened Jowan’s face for a moment, passing as quickly as it came.  “Fine have it your way,” he smiled and closed his eyes as he shrugged his arms upward.  “You did sign it out after all, so I suppose it’s only right that you keep possession of it.” 

            Moving woodenly, Sha shifted around behind the amplifier and slowly drew out the rod of fire. 

            _This is wrong!  I’ve come too far.  There has to be another way!  We’re so close to the goal.  Something isn’t right!  Jowan is our friend; we can do this for him.  He’s up to something!_  

            Even as her internal debate continued, Sha watched in horror as her arm reached out even though she struggled against it as though she were a mere puppet and someone else was pulling the string, the rod of fire clasped tightly against her palm.  The rod touched against the stone mabari, the tip coming flush against what would’ve been the base of the skull on a dog of living flesh causing a great gout of flame to burst forth from its stone mouth to explode against the wall’s blocks. 

            “Well,” Jowan smiled in relief as the three stood, staring in surprise as the dust settled, “That was more effective than I could’ve hoped.” 

            Shattered glanced at him, noting the beads of perspiration that shone across his forehead as though he had been under a terrific strain or had put forth a tremendous effort and felt sick to her stomach, her own pulse pounding painfully through her skull.  Lily picked her way forward around stone blocks and rubble to peer wide eyed beyond the wall. 

            “There’s three steps over here leading into the next room,” she called back excitedly, her breath puffing out in the chilled air that drifted around her and into the repository.  Turning back, Lily shivered, hands rubbing at her arms as she tried to warm up.  “It’s freezing,” her teeth chattered. 

            “Likely an enchantment covering the whole room,” Sha heard herself saying, wrapping herself in the armor of her knowledge.  “If the blood in the phylacteries is not kept within a narrow temperature range, it will decay and become useless.”

            “It’ll be even more useless once I spill it over the floor,” Jowan’s grin was wide and feral as he stepped through the rubble and into the chamber beyond. 

            Eyes wide with terror, a shudder passed through Shattered’s frame that had nothing to do with the chill creeping through the air and into her bones.  Perhaps, even outside the Fade, things were not what they seemed. 

            Inside the phylactery chamber another set of Sentinels met them, these slightly stronger than the previous.  Their blood seals were all in the same positions, though, so it was an easy thing to turn the three armors into loose piles of scrap.  As the last one fell, Sha leaned her forehead against her staff, its tip resting against the floor and her hands wrapped high on the shaft.  Her breath panted out and she felt the tickle of sweat dripping down the side of her face.  None of the training the Circle had put her through, not even that eventful trip to Redcliffe, had prepared Sha for the continuous waves of fighting, one stringing into the next like beads in a necklace with little rest in between to recover.  It was really starting to wear on her, the constant drain chipping away at both her mana and stamina. 

            Warm vapor puffed from between her lips as she tried to catch her breath, a small fog that hung in front of her through which she eyed Jowan.  From this perspective he seemed larger than normal somehow, a looming dark presence that leered down at the slim Chantry initiate beside him. 

            “Now we just have to find my phylactery,” he said, the words curling through the air to feel like hands at her throat.  Shattered shivered.  Carefully stepping through the chill that rose in a mist from the floor, Sha, Jowan, and Lily approached the shelves that lined an upper level to the room.  From a tactical point of view, having the phylacteries in a split level chamber made sense.  It gave whoever had use of the room a staging area, as well as giving the Sentinels a choke point from which to defend.  Wary and exhausted, Sha trudged up the stairs behind Jowan and Lily, regretting everything she’d done that day. 

            “There are so many,” Lily whispered, eyes wide as she gazed around the shelves where vials of various shapes and sizes rested in the chill. 

            “These don’t represent even half the mages in the tower,” Jowan told her.  “Once a mage is Harrowed, their phylactery is moved to Denerim for storage at the Chantry there.”  He glanced at Shattered and shrugged, “Sorry we can’t get yours while we’re here, but Greagoir is pretty strict about it leaving by first light after a successful Harrowing.”  He didn’t look very sorry, she thought distractedly. 

            But then there they were, the three of them each on a different case as they searched through the phylacteries.  Not all of the vials were as she suspected – long thin tubes of blood.  Oh, of course they all had blood in them from one apprentice or another, but the shape of the containers varied from squat and round to tall and slim to pear shaped and everything in between.  She even noticed a few square ones clustered in with the rest.  Apparently there was no such thing as uniformity when a phylactery was made – whatever container was on hand would do in a pinch and Sha suspected that many were still in the containers the Templar filled with their blood in the field upon retrieval of a new found mage.  Even the outer appearance varied from one vial to the next – one smooth, the next frosted, and the one after that gilded with an intricately swirling silver vine that wrapped from base to mouth. 

            For a moment, Sha wondered what her phylactery looked like; she had been so young when she’d been taken by the Templars in Kirkwall.  The only memory she had of those first few days were full of pain and confusion.  She didn’t even remember when they took her blood.

            Scrubbing a hand across her face, Sha refocused her eyes, narrowing them as she started scanning the small tags tied to the neck of each vial declaring which mage it was tied to.  A few more moments of looking brought a smile to her face, her fingers lingering on the tag with the name Neria Surana printed in neat script.  Surana.  Shattered rolled the name across her tongue, trying it out for the first time as she wondered why Neria had never told her before.  Perhaps the elf didn’t know what her name was, just as Shattered didn’t know the meaning behind her first name.  Making a mental note to ask Neria when she got the chance, Sha dropped the tag from between her slim fingers and moved onto a cluster of vials on the next shelf down.

            “Any luck yet,” Jowan called, looking back over his shoulder at the two girls.

            “Mmm, none yet,” Lily answered, her search reaching a frantic level of haste.

            “Nothing yet here, either,” Shattered answered and, as she said it, it was completely true.  However, two seconds later, she had to repress a gasp as her eyes widened and her lips parted.  There it was – a pear shaped vial near the back with a long neck, the white tag tied near its cap bearing scrawling letters labeling it to belong to Jowan Levyn. 

            And yet, something stayed her hand.  Was it the gleam in his eye or the shiver down her spine when she caught him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, she really couldn’t say but something just didn’t feel right and so her fingers lingered.  Catching her lip between her teeth, Sha glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder.

            Jowan and Lily’s backs were both to her.  Deft fingers unwound the tag from Jowan’s phylactery, palming it as she reached for Neria’s vial.  With a quick jerk, she tore Neria’s label from her phylactery and twisted the string for Jowan’s around the thin glass neck. 

            “Here it is,” Sha held up the vial of Neria’s blood.  “I’ve found it.”  She turned, catching a predatory gleam in Jowan’s eye before he smiled eagerly at her. 

            “Give it to me,” he motioned with his hand as one might call a child, reaching out expectantly for her to pass over the vial.  Sha hesitated and once again saw the darkness clouding around him.  “Give it to me,” he said again, only much lower, threatening almost, as he bared his teeth.

            Her hand shaking, Shattered reached out, the phylactery held between her outstretched fingers as she refused to step closer.  Jowan didn’t seem to notice her hesitance to come nearer, or at least didn’t comment on it as he snatched the tube from her gleefully. 

            “So small, so fragile,” he murmured.  “To think this is all that stand between me and freedom.”  He held out his hand, the delicate glass tube laying across his palm while he rubbed his thumb over the surface.  With a flick of his fingers he rolled the vial to the backside of his hand where it danced from knuckle to knuckle, glittering in the dim torchlight.  Only, on the second pass, the phylactery didn’t change direction but instead tumbled off the side of Jowan’s hand and in a lazy slow motion fall spun its way down to the hard stone floor where it shattered on a surface worn smooth by centuries of use, fractured pieces glittering like diamonds amidst a splatter of red. 

            “And now it’s gone,” Jowan smiled dreamily, as though a great weight were gone from his shoulders. 

            “Let’s get out of here,” Lily said, rubbing her hands along her arms to warm them. 

            “Yes,” Jowan said languorously, “There’s no need to linger here any longer.”

            While Shattered agreed, her jaw was clenched tightly shut and a chill coiled in her belly that had nothing to do with the enchantment on the room.  She nodded woodenly, turning toward the chamber door.

 

            “Did you feel that,” Greagoir asked as he glanced sideways to Irving, a look on his face as though a goose had just walked over his grave. 

            Opening the door that would lead them through the Apprentice Quarters toward the basement, Irving frowned.  “Yes,” his voice was grave, his brow pulled down in a deep scowl.  “The chamber door has been opened.”

            “We must hurry.” 

            Even though the two had been friends for many years now, it had still taken Irving quite a bit of time to convince Greagoir that the blood mage, _Jowan_ , was going to make a play for the Phylactery Chamber, but once he got moving it was as though someone had shot him in the arse with a fire ball.  Or perhaps that was only because Irving had mentioned Shattered’s possible involvement.  Neither man wanted to see her come to harm, and would do everything in their power to protect her.  If they could get there in time.  So off they had rushed, Irving having to almost painfully lengthen his stride to match Greagoir’s rushed steps as the Knight-Commander had bellowed to his Templar and slammed one of the oaken doors open so hard in his haste that Irving was certain he’d heard the timbers crack as they smashed against the stone wall beyond. 

            With all that rushing, they were going to just barely make it in time.  Irving sent a silent prayer to Andraste that Shattered wouldn’t be there, certain that the incomprehensible murmuring he had heard coming from Greagoir was the Knight-Commander asking the same of the Maker under his breath.  Any other time, Irving might have found the insight funny enough to allow great howls of laughter to rumble up from his belly, his face crinkled into a grin and tears running from his eyes, until his old bones had enough and given him a stitch in his side reminding him to act his age – the very thought of the look on the Grand Cleric’s face if she ever found out that a _Templar_ had prayed for a mage was just that amusing to him, and the blessed _Knight-Commander_ at that. 

            But really, this was no laughing matter.  This was as deadly serious as deadly serious could get.  This was High Dragon breathing fire in your face while behind you a great yawning gully threatened to swallow you up as the edge of the ridge you stood on crumbled and tossed you down serious.  Not that Irving ever particularly thought of that one moment in his life when he thought he was going to die before taking his next breath but in times like this, when something he held so dear as Shattered was threatened, his body reacted the same as it did then – breath coming in short gasps, scrotum tightening up so his balls were nearly pressed into his abdomen, and a slight tingling spread along his frame as magic coursing through his blood screamed to be let out.  Only now, as then, Greagoir was there and between the two he hoped – no, he _knew_ – they would be able to figure something out. 

            He just hoped that _this_ particular dragon wouldn’t need slaying with magic and a sword.

 

            “I’m free,” Jowan took a deep breath, a languid smile spread across his features as they closed the basement door behind them.

            “Shouldn’t you be out the front doors before you start celebrating,” Shattered twisted her fingers together.  It still seemed early to her to be talking of freedom when he was still in the Tower. 

            “Don’t worry,” the predatory gleam returned to his eye, “I have a plan.”

            “You’ll be going nowhere, blood mage,” Greagoir’s voice boomed through the alcove that led to the basement doors as he burst forth from the Apprentice Quarters.  His eyes flicked over them.  “A Chantry Initiate and,” his gaze settled on her, “you.  What were you thinking?”

            Shattered couldn’t meet his eyes.  Instead, she glanced down at her hands, which were worrying at each other but she couldn’t help it.  Both of the men she hoped to not let down where there; they had caught her at her worst and were livid.  She chanced a glance at them.  No, not livid.  Worse.  Disappointed.  “I – “

            “No.  I’m not in the mood to hear it right now.  You aided in the destruction of a blood mages phylactery.”  Sad eyes gazed for a moment at Shattered.  “What am I to do with you?”  Turning to the Templar behind him, Greagoir said, “The Initiate doesn’t seem to be under the thrall of the blood mage; she’s chosen this of her own free will.  The Chantry will not let this go unpunished; she’ll be taken to Aeonar and the blood mage will be executed.” 

            “No,” Jowan screamed, only it didn’t sound much like Jowan.  His voice resembled that of a feral beast that had been granted speech as the words poured from him.  “You’ll not touch her!  I won’t let you!”  From a sheath hidden inside his sleeve, Jowan pulled out a knife and Shattered gasped, backing away from him as he grabbed for Lily’s wrist.  Paralyzed with fear, Lily didn’t resist.  Her eyes were riveted on the wickedly carved blade in Jowan’s hand as he pulled her in front of him and held the knife over her shoulder and against her neck.

            “Don’t make things worse for yourself, my boy,” Irving said gravely.  He’d pulled his staff forward from the carry sling at his back and held it now in front of him in a defensive position. 

            Jowan cackled, a high keening maniacal sound that could barely be classified as a laugh.  “Worse for myself,” he asked, his voice cracking on the first word.  “How could it possibly be worse,” he shrieked.  “You’re already going to put me to death; why should I make it easy for you?” 

            And before anyone could stop him, Jowan drew the blade across Lily’s throat.  Lily spluttered and stumbled one, two steps forward before sinking to her knees and keeling over.  But the blood, oh the blood was everywhere.  It had sprayed outward from the slash, catching Jowan across one arm and shoulder along with part of his face.  Some of it splattered Greagoir, who had been standing the closest to them, and now it spread from Lily’s body in an ever expanding crimson pool. 

            Shattered would’ve stood, transfixed as she stared at Lily’s life force creeping across the floor, but Jowan lunged at her with his knife outstretched and suddenly Sha was frozen in place.  Panic coursed through her, but the knife bounced harmlessly off of the Force Field spell First Enchanter Irving had cast on her.  She stared, wide eyed and terrified at Jowan through the protective bubble of the field and briefly wondered if this was how helpless Cullen had felt when the Darkspawn had stood there, banging away while he was trapped in a Force Field of his own. 

            On the other side of the shimmering shell surrounding her, Jowan snarled. 

            Everything seemed to happen in slow motion after that.

            The Templars were moving forward like they were running through molasses.  Jowan was pulling the energy from Lily’s blood to him and it gurgled and leapt through the air like it was its own living entity.  Irving was raising his staff toward the ceiling to call down a spell on Jowan’s head. 

            And even though everyone moved at half speed from Shattered’s point of view, her own heart beat a rapid tempo that any squirrel would be hard pressed to match.

            Then everything shifted back to normal as Jowan finished his cast before Irving, murmuring under his breath as he _flung_ the blood at the Templars.  Accompanied by a blast wave of power, it was as though the blood had actually attacked on his command, knocking Greagoir, Irving, and the few Templar that had accompanied them to the ground.  They were still and made no sound except for a high piercing shriek that filled the air as Jowan turned and ran toward Kinloch Hold’s heavy double doors that would take him to freedom.

            He didn’t look back as he ran, didn’t turn to see if they were dead or alive.  They were down, and that was all that mattered for now.  They were down and Shattered was stuck in a bubble shrieking.  


	18. The Path Ahead

# 18 – The Path Ahead

 

            The Templars had never encouraged the mages to learn how to swim.  It made sense, really, because a mage in a robe was always going to be faster than a man in full plate anyway and the weight would only make him sink if he were to take a dip in the ice cold water of Lake Calenhad.  The lake waters were always chilly, even in the sweltering heat of midsummer.  The apprentices would occasionally speculate why; the untold amounts of potions – failed and otherwise – that got dumped into the water by the Templars, unstable enchantment materials from the Tranquil, or the cold of the fade carried across the Veil by countless wandering souls that had failed their Harrowings. 

            While Jowan wasn’t exactly that he would call _friends_ with Anders, he had gotten close enough to the escape artist to learn a few things.  Only his plan had been better than any Anders could ever cook up because there was no way for the Templars to hunt him down and drag him back kicking and screaming.  Although, the fate that awaited Anders when he returned – a cell in the dungeon – and the fate that awaited Jowan – a bloody gruesome death – were far removed from one another. 

            Jowan reminded himself of this as he coughed water from his lungs onto the pebbly shore next to the Calenhad docks.  His body was shivering convulsively as he knelt just above the water line with his chest burning while he gasped for air.  Anders had warned him it would be cold.  He had vastly understated how low the temperature actually was. 

            “Shiiiit,” Jowan forced out between chattering teeth as he staggered to his feet.  He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to warm them as he looked around.  There was more than just one piece of poor planning to Anders escape attempts, Jowan had realized over the years as he watched time and again while the blond man was returned to the Tower.  Anders never really _had_ a plan.  His escapes were more the product of opportunity than any actual forethought.  Cupping his hands in front of his mouth to warm them, Jowan turned south.  Keeping close to the shoreline, he hunched over and ran toward the boathouse where the local fishermen stored their skiffs when they weren’t in use. 

            Sneaking through the side door, Jowan smiled at the row of dinghies tied up, peacefully bumping one another in time with each ripple across the water’s surface.  Lantern light from the sparse cluster of buildings that could be considered the main part of Calenhad Dock’s village filtered dimly through gaps in the weathered boards of the boathouse, lighting Jowan’s path as he crept along the walkway linking the boats.

            Swimming wasn’t the only thing the Templars didn’t want mages to learn.  But then, the Templars weren’t very diligent about checking the extensive Circle libraries for unauthorized information so occasionally books could be snuck in that weren’t exactly approved.  Finding the one on sailing had been pure luck, but Jowan wasn’t about to spit in fate’s face.  He’d read the faded copy until he could recite each page line for line, the corners tattered and ripped where he’d dog eared them. 

            After surveying his options, Jowan selected one of the smaller boats, a slim ten footer with its canvas sail tightly furled and lashed against the boom.  As he cast off the craft’s line, he eyed it.  Not your typical fisher’s boat, the skiff he’d selected sat high on the water.  It was much slimmer than its neighbors, bumping and jostling one another with their wide hulls and low keels. 

            It was probably used for messages or emergency supplies between the Docks, Redcliffe, and the Tower, Jowan surmised as he carefully stepped into the skiff.  It rocked a little at his weight, but then steadied and Jowan let out a long, slow breath.  He took up the oars that lay in the bottom of the boat and, using one to push away from the walkway, maneuvered the little vessel out and onto the open waters of Lake Calenhad. 

            A thin track of lamp light glittered off the water as the skiff bobbed along slowly and Jowan turned toward it with a smug smile.  This was the last he would see of Calenhad Docks; he would burn the world to the ground before he let the Templars bring him back.  With a slight murmur, a warming spell began to spread heat through his cold, wet body before he turned to unfurl the sail. 

           

            Soon after he lost consciousness, Irving’s Force Field dissolved into nothingness leaving Shattered to sprawl unceremoniously to the floor.  Her throat was sore from screaming and her voice came out ragged, croaking as she crawled toward the unconscious men around her. 

            “Greagoir,” she sobbed brokenly as she reached him.  A trembling, red stained hand reached to check for a pulse but she pulled back with a gasp when she realized it was covered in Lily’s lifeblood that was congealing as it pooled on the cold stone floor.  Wiping frantically at her robes, Sha fought to reign in her hysteria.  The frozen cold of panic emanated from her spine as she looked down at herself.  Her robes were grimy and covered in blood and the sticky red stain would not come off her hands; it would only smear and spread making them both worse. 

            “Greagoir,” she croaked again, this time accompanied by tears falling uncontrollably from her eyes to slide across her cheeks and eventually drip from her chin.  She didn’t dare wipe her face off; she didn’t think she could handle having Lily’s blood smeared there, too.  Snuffling her nose to keep it from running mucus down her face, Sha licked her lips and tasted saltiness, a product of her own weeping. 

            Pulling Greagoir’s still form to her, Shattered hugged him closely and cried into his hair mindless of his heavy plate pauldron digging into her breast.  It took three attempts before she was able to focus her magic enough to cast a small Heal over the Knight-Commander.  Unthinking, Sha wiped her sleeve under her nostrils and then cursed herself as she felt the cool dampness left behind against her skin. 

            From deeper within the Tower, a muffled din rose in volume.  Shattered looked apprehensively at the heavy oak door separating her from the noise.  Of course Greagoir would have come with whichever Templars he could when Irving brought news of the escape attempt, but he was an intelligent man and wise to the ways of mage’s who thought themselves cleaver.  Another contingent of Templars was on the way, backup to those already here in case things did not go smoothly. 

            Panic and fear coursed through Shattered as she scrambled to her feet and looked down at herself.  Dark red stained her robes where she’d encountered the blood on the floor; not exactly something easily explainable when all around her lay unconscious templars.  Praying that she wouldn’t be killed on site, Shattered toed her staff farther away and turned her palms upward to show she was unarmed. 

            Even knowing what would emerge, she couldn’t help flinching when the Templars burst through the door, slamming it against the adjoining stone wall so hard it bounced back, nearly catching the lead templar in the face on the rebound.  Shattered’s eyes widened as she looked at the three men standing there, Cullen among them coming through last, and a small hope kindled within her that she just _might_ not be killed on sight.  Thinking to warn them of Jowan’s phylactery, Sha opened her mouth, but no words came. 

            At that moment, she saw a flash of emotion cross Cullen’s face – was it betrayal? – and his jaw tightened as he turned his face away just before the white light of a double Holy Smite bleached out all color, shape and sound from her world when it crashed over her from the other two templars. 

            _“NO,”_ Shattered thought, screaming in her mind as she felt her exhausted body being pulled under by the ability, _“not yet, not now!  They can still stop him!”_   But as she reached into the bright, white nothing, the only thing she was sure of was that the Templars could not hear her and that Andraste was there, standing in the blank whiteness, reaching for her hand. 

 

            Predawn light struggled to pierce the lazy haze that still clung to the ground under the trees at Ostagar.  Light gleamed off of steel, glinting along the sharp edge of a sword as it sang through the air before ringing out as it clashed against Richu’s crossed daggers. 

            “Very good,” the older warden laughed as he leaped backward to put some distance between himself and his opponent. 

            Chest heaving with exertion, Alistair grinned at the praise.  Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and trickled down the side of his face, tickling across his skin before finally sliding along his jaw and dripping from his chin. 

            Richu gave him a wicked smirk and licked the side of his blade.  “Don’t get distracted now, whelp,” he called teasingly. 

            “I’ve got my eye on you, old man,” Alistair retorted good naturedly.  He enjoyed training with the other Wardens when he could, so when Richu had flipped open his tent entrance this morning and kicked him awake he’d scrambled to don his gear to spar with the rogue.  Even though he enjoyed his time with Duncan more, it made his heart light to know that here was a place that he belonged, that wanted him. 

            Crouching low to the ground, Richu raised his daggers and smiled.  Then he blurred from view, leaving Alistair gaping at the spot he’d stood with his shield and sword both hanging useless.  It was only for a moment and then Alistair shook himself with a mental reminder that he _had_ seen Richu do the exact same thing while dueling other Wardens.  The rogue hadn’t just _vanished_.  He had deftly slipped into the shadows and any moment now would pounce.  Hefting his shield up to cover his left side, Alistair slowly started circling as he peered at his surroundings. 

            A whisper of breath and the muted scuff of a boot were all the warning he had that Richu had slipped behind him and as quickly as Alistair reacted, it still wasn’t fast enough.  As he swung toward the sound with his sword arm, it was caught in a firm grip and then twisted back and up till the weapon dropped from numb fingers while a second hand grabbed his head from behind and pushed downward. 

            “Ow, ow, okay!  I give up,” Alistair pulled a face that was half way between a grin and a grimace while Richu chuckled behind him.  Bent over with his arm twisted to the verge of breaking wasn’t exactly what he would’ve considered a dignified pose, but then he hadn’t expected to actually win while sparring with Richu.  After all, the rogue had been in the Wardens for as long as Alistair had been _alive._   No amount of youthful exuberance could counter that sort of experience. 

            “Not bad,” Richu conceded as he shifted his grip and pulled Alistair upright.  “Next time, swing with your shield,” his eyes twinkled as his weather worn face crinkled into a smile.  “I’ll have nothing to grab onto and no way to disarm you that way.” 

            “I’ll take it into advisement,” Alistair responded as he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. 

            “Do that,” the older Warden laughed as he tossed a canteen in Alistair’s direction.  “In the meantime, you have a visitor it seems.” 

            Jerking his chin toward a figure standing just outside of their make-shift sparring area, Richu indicated a rather nervous looking Chantry sister.  Her brown and tan Chantry robes nearly brushed the soft carpet of pine needles and leaves at her feet and Alistair sighed before tipping the canteen to his lips when he saw the pinched lines around the sister’s mouth and her pale fingers twining together in front of the blazing sun embroidered at her chest. 

            “Friend of yours?”

            “Not at all,” Alistair replied in a flat tone as he passed Richu’s canteen back.  “She’s the Revered Mother’s right hand.  If she’s here, I’m probably being summoned to accomplish some inane task that any one of a thousand other people could be assigned but for some reason it just _has_ to be me.”  Looking glum, the younger man sighed dramatically. 

            “She’s still bent that Duncan conscripted you,” it wasn’t so much a question as a statement; it wasn’t exactly a secret that the Revered Mother had been loath to let Alistair go.  He had undergone Templar training, after all, but had yet to take his vows which meant that he wasn’t oath bound to be under her thumb or addicted to the lyrium the Chantry insisted Templars _needed_ to perform their skills. 

            “To say the least,” Alistair answered under his breath before greeting the sister approaching them with what he hoped she would find as a charming smile.  “Sister Abigail,” he nodded his head deferentially, “How pleasant to see you.  What brings you outside the main camp?”

            A light flush crept up Abigail’s plain features accompanied by a flash of white as her lips curled into a rueful smile.  “I’m here for you, I’m afraid,” she said glancing down. 

            “Let me guess,” Alistair replied, “The Revered Mother would like me to massage her feet?  Perhaps deliver a message? Or convert a few Chasind?  I’m pretty sure that one would go over well,” he said the last in a conspiratorial tone while looking at Richu, but it was Abigail who answered him.

            “Oh Alistair,” she gave a little giggle and reached out to rest her hand on Alistair’s bicep while she smiled up at him, “You know the Revered Mother thinks highly of you to request your assistance.” 

            Richu glanced at her hand and raised an eyebrow before looking away and coughing politely into his hand. 

            “Yes, well, I’m sure there’s _no one_ else who could possibly fetch her tea,” Alistair sighed.  He retrieved his sword and slung his shield to his back before gesturing toward the crumbling walls of Ostagar that could be seen looming beyond the ring of trees the two Wardens had been sparring in.  “Lead on.” 

            Cocking his head to the side, Richu watched as Alistair followed Sister Abigail back to the main camp as a puppy might follow its mistress.

            “Blockhead,” he grinned and shook his head. 

 

            “Ughh,” Bethany grimaced and crinkled her nose as she poked open the door to Carver’s room.  “Holy Maker, brother, how do live in here,” she asked aloud as she waved a hand in front of her face to dissipate the smell.  Scattered about the room were piles of clothing in various states of cleanliness – or rather, lack thereof.  It appeared that the farther away from the bed and door one got, the more rank the stench of stale sweat, rotted food and manure became. 

            She sighed and shook her head as she spotted a half-eaten sandwich perched on the nightstand.  No doubt Carver had left it there long enough the bread was stale and the cheese molding, pleasantly oblivious that its days were numbered. 

            Rubbing her hands together and then settling them on her hips, Beth surveyed the mess awaiting her.  “Well,” she mused, “It’s a good thing I got started early.” 

            Before visiting Carver’s room, Bethany had checked Travisty’s and been unsurprised to find her sister had thoroughly cleaned recently.  The bed was made; her clothing had been cleaned and folded into the small trunk at the foot of Trav’s bed.  Her leather smithing apron hung next to the door on an iron hook mounted firmly to the wall.  It was just how Travisty was, Beth reflected; a place for everything and everything in its place clear down to their father’s old armor that Trav kept polished and oiled where it stayed on display, hung across the simple wooden armor stand in the corner of Trav’s room. 

            As with nearly all things, Carver was Trav’s exact opposite; Bethany wrinkled her nose as she began plucking clothing from the nearest pile and dropped them into a wicker basket at her feet.  Loath to do his own laundry, she was certain her brother whined to mother for coin whenever he ran out of clean clothes and simply bought new garments instead of doing the wash.  It was the only possible explanation as to how in Thedas he'd amassed so many garments.

            Seen through objective eyes, the disparity between how her siblings were treated made Bethany feel a touch of shame for Leandra.  It had been like this since father had gotten sick, she realized, with mother’s soul focus being carrying on the family name.  Pausing for a moment to reminisce, Beth realized it hadn’t really been all that different before father had gotten sick, with mother doting on Carver – and herself – while Trav was shuffled off to the side or ignored completely.  Trav’s saving grace had been father; he’d taken her for one on one training for as long as Beth could remember – even before the first flicker of magic had made itself known by lighting Carver’s pants on fire when he’d taken Bethany’s doll from her. 

            Maybe that’s why Carver hated Trav so much, Beth decided as she resumed loading her basket.  Neither of the other two Hawke children were magically inclined as she was, and yet Travisty was not only invited along when Bethany and Malcom trained in magic, but also received training beyond the swordplay that was taught to Carver.  It probably didn’t help that Carver’s features had the more feminine touch of their mother’s while Trav had the more rugged look of their father. 

            “It’s going to be a long day,” Bethany decided as she lifted her now full basket.  Giving one last glance around Carver’s room, she grimaced.  “A very long day.” 

            Once outside their modest home, she smiled and lifted her face toward the rising sun.  At least out here the air was fresh despite a slight chill in the air that said autumn was just around the corner.  Whistling to herself, Bethany made her way toward the stream that crossed the edge of Hawke land near the north field.  Some of the closer neighbors would gather together there to do their wash – as well as gossip – in a shallow part near a copse of trees they’d strung lines between for hanging, but Bethany was sure she’d find no one there this early. 

            The thought had crossed her mind that Carver wouldn’t even be grateful that she’d spent her day dealing with his messy belongings.  A smile crossed her lips as she trudged through the tall grass, her basket thumping awkwardly against her hip.  Over the years, she’d gotten used to her brother being a thankless bastard she realized.  It didn’t change the fact that she loved him as only his family could, even if she did want to knock him in the head with a frying pan now and then.  And there was that one time Trav had set him on his ass.  Beth sobered as the memory crossed her mind and she pushed it from her thoughts as best she could as she brushed through the low hanging branches of trees and clinging tendrils of blackberry bushes that grew close to the stream’s bank. 

            That had not been a good year for the Hawkes, with Malcolm getting sick and Carver thinking he could have the run of the house – badgering their mother, Leandra, until she was ragged so he could go out drinking and wenching while their father lay dying. 

            And there was a man at the stream.  A strange man.  Bethany pulled up short as she realized this, cursing herself for already being on the open bank instead of having noticed him where she still might have hid behind a tree.  He rose from where it appeared he had been scooping water to his mouth and turned toward her.  His eyes were tired and had dark circles under them.  Strands of dirty blond hair framed an angular face, having escaped a tie valiantly attempting to hold it into a saucy pony tail at the nape of his neck.  They added to the harried appearance his eyes had hinted at.  And though he wasn’t exactly what she would call thin, Beth got the impression that this was someone who wasn’t accustomed to eating as she was – with nice roast meats, mashed potatoes, and as much carrots, corn, or beans as she could handle.  There was mud splattered from the bottom edge of his robes up to the knee with bits of leaves and twigs clinging here and there as though the man had been rushing head long through the forest without a clue how to move silently. 

            His robes…  It hit Bethany as an afterthought and when the implications rose up in her mind, she couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped her.  Forgotten, the laundry basket fell to the ground with a thump, a portion of its contents jumping out to land next to it.  Both hands had clasped to her mouth and Beth wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. 

 

            “I assure you this isn’t what it looks like,” Anders told the young woman, silently hoping that she wouldn’t drop her hands and start screaming her fool head off.  As it was, he was kicking himself anyway for sounding entirely too desperate and not nearly as suave as he’d hoped.  The girl’s eyes had gone wide as they’d taken him in, their brown pools seemingly looking right through him. 

            “And what exactly does it look like,” she asked timidly, hands lowered slightly but still clasped together just in front of her chin.

            Glancing down at himself, Anders grimaced.  “Well, I supposed it looks like I’m an escaped mage running from the circle.”  He smiled a little and looked sheepishly at her, arms raised slightly at his sides with his palms up. 

            “It does look…quite a bit like that actually,” she told him hesitantly. 

            Letting his arms drop, Anders sighed.  “In that case, I suppose this looks _exactly_ like what it is then.”  He had expected some sort of reaction, but the girl just stood there slowly lowering her arms till they were clasped together at her waist.  “You’re not going to scream then,” he asked. 

            “Are you being chased by the Templars,” the girl asked. 

            He shrugged in response.  “Probably.  Soon, anyway.”

            “Then no,” she shook her head, dark hair swishing about her face in lazy waves, “I won’t scream.”

            “Oh.”  Anders blinked.  He really hadn’t been expecting that.  “Not that I really want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but can I ask why?”

           

            Bethany bit her lip.   Part of her wanted to reveal her secret to this man, to revel in it, but there in the back of her mind – where he would probably always be – Malcolm Hawke’s deep, resounding voice spoke out in warning to her, cautioning her against trusting anyone.

            “Our father,” she said at last, “mine, and my brother and sister’s, was a mage,” she said.  It was the truth, if not the whole truth.  “He had escaped from the Circle to be with my mother.  We’ve moved from one place to another most of our lives.”

            “Was,” the man asked quietly.  Obviously he wasn’t so tired that he hadn’t noticed her use of past tense or the sadness Bethany was sure had crept into her smile, as it always did when she remembered her father. 

            “Yes,” she answered him, eyes dropping to the ground as she dug a booted toe through the dirt at her feet.  “He’s…passed on.  Nearly three years ago now.”  Looking up, she took note of the sorrow and compassion that showed on the mage’s face and felt a small amount of comfort from it. 

            “I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” he murmured. 

            “And you, Ser Mage,” Bethany forced brightness into her voice even if she didn’t particularly feel like being bright just this moment, “What grand plan have you come up with that could possibly bring you to Lothering?  You are aware that an army is massing to the south, are you not?”  She cocked an eyebrow upward as she regarded the mage in her steady gaze.

            “Please don’t call me that,” he cringed and glanced around as though someone were hiding among the trees and would jump out at any moment shouting ‘Ah ha!’.

            “I’ve nothing else to call you as you’ve not told me your name,” Bethany felt her lips curl upwards at the corners with amusement.  She liked this man, she decided.  He was amusing and she was charmed despite herself. 

            “Ah, well,” the mage pulled himself up straight, squaring his shoulder and bent one arm behind his back while the other one crossed over his waist.  He bowed low in front of her.  “Forgive me, my Lady.  I am but your humble servant.  I go by the name ‘Anders’, but many have called me ‘Oh, Maker, yes’.”  He grinned up at her as Bethany tried to stifle a giggle that wouldn’t be held back.  “And you, dear Lady,” he asked, “What shall I call you?”

            “Bethany,” she said with a smile.  “You may call me Bethany.”

            “Dear sweet Lady Bethany,” Anders grinned.

            “No, I think just ‘Bethany’ will do just fine,” she laughed.  Then she sobered, glancing at the trees around them much as Anders had done moments before.  “Perhaps you had better come with me, Ser Anders,” she said.  “Others are likely to be arriving here soon if they’ve laundry to be done.” 

            Anders wilted a little in front of her.  “Yes, I see I’ve picked a popular spot for that,” he jerked his chin toward her dropped basket. 

            Snorting, Beth waved dismissively at the clothes.  “It can wait,” she said, “Brother won’t be back from Ostagar for a while and I doubt he’d even realize they were missing.”

            “I see,” Anders replied as Beth turned back the way she’d come and his eyes were drawn to her shapely rear shown off by the snug fit of her dark leather pants.  “Right behind you.”


	19. Intervention

# 19 – Intervention

 

            “You’ve yet to tell me where we’re going, exactly,” Anders said hesitantly as he picked his way along the footpath worn through the tall grass at the edge of Hawke land.  He glanced to the left observing the fallow field they now walked beside; tall, sun browned weeds grew along the unseeded rows to wave lazily in the cool morning breeze.

            “To my home,” Beth answered him simply.  She followed his gaze, a rueful smile spreading across her face.  “There was a time when all of us would work the fields together,” she said.

            “Sounds fun,” Anders answered unenthusiastically. 

            “It was…a happier time,” Bethany shrugged like it didn’t matter, but Anders heard the tremor in her voice that said it did.  “Now it’s nearly impossible to get brother to help, so mostly it’s just my sister and I that tend the crops.” 

            “You could always come with me if you want,” Anders smirked at her back, his eyes traveling over her legs.  “I wouldn’t mind a little companionship.” 

            “Not hardly,” Bethany laughed with a glance back over her shoulder. 

            “It was worth a shot,” Anders grinned at her. 

            Shaking her head, Bethany turned forward again, her lips curled slightly up at the corners.  Ahead, she could see the Hawke family’s modest residence and slowed her pace.  “Mother was still asleep when I set out this morning.  She may have woken since – I don’t know.  Either way…,” her voice trailed off as she frowned.

            “I’ll be quiet as a Chantry mouse, I swear,” Anders said from behind her. 

            “Be quieter,” she told him firmly and Anders bit back the sarcastic quip that danced on the tip of his tongue. 

            Beth led him around the side of the house to a room that was clearly an addition to the structure many years after the original had been completed.  Reaching out a hand, Anders trailed his fingers over the roughhewn red cedar logs used to construct the added room.  It was a sharp contrast to the white pine logs that appeared to make up the rest of the home and Anders wondered at it idly. 

            “Stay here,” Bethany whispered to him when they reached a window set in the red cedar and then hurried away from him around the corner. 

            The bottom sill was set just below nipple level and Anders’ eyes widened slightly as he realized she meant for him to climb through once she’d opened it from the inside.  Glancing around, he despaired that there was nothing he could use to stand on.  Before he could explore further, the window slid upward with the low groan of wood on wood and Bethany leaned out, her dark brown tresses swinging forward as she beckoned to him. 

            Eyes widening, Anders swallowed.  His throat was suddenly dry and his manhood twitched against the confines of his smallclothes.  Up until this point, he’d only really gotten a clear look at Bethany from the rear during their walk back to the Hawke holding.  While he’d been facing her, she’d first had a laundry basket in front of her, and then her hands all the while dappled by early morning light sifting through foliage to leave leaf shaped shadows across her face and chest. 

            Now, gesturing to him as she leaned from the window, he had a wonderful view of her ample bosom and generous cleavage. 

            “Hurry up,” she hissed, and Anders wondered if the girl even knew she had this effect on men. 

            “Coming,” he said, and smirked at his own double entendre.

            “Are all Circle mages so odd,” she asked while eyeing him speculatively. 

            “Not really.  I’m special,” Anders grinned as he reached for the hand Beth offered. 

            “Thank the Maker,” she rolled her eyes and heaved backward with a grunt that lifted Anders off his feet and startled a rather unmanly squeak out of him.  “Shh,” Bethany cautioned with a glance toward the door, “Mother could hear you.”

            “I’ll try to remember that,” Anders gasped as he lay across the window sill.  The girl really was stronger than she looked.  Must’ve been all the plowing, planting and what not that went on at a farm.  Grunting, he wriggled forward rather ineffectually and, with a sigh, Bethany leaned across his torso to grab at what would’ve been the seat of his pants had he been wearing any.  But he wasn’t wearing pants; he was wearing a robe and as Beth pulled at it to help him over the sill, his robe rode up until it caught under his arms.  He hung that way for a second, his robe – _Godwin’s_ robe, he reminded himself – rucked up while he dangled half way through a window with his smallclothes on display for the whole world to see.  Then Bethany grunted and pulled again, this time with a firmer grip on the bunched up fabric, and he sprawled forward into the room with nothing to catch himself on. 

            He was a sight, that was certain, with the robe having ended up nearly over his head, face down on the hard wood floor with his rear in the air and he chuckled to himself as he heard Bethany gasp.

            “Oh my,” she said, “I am _so_ very sorry.”  He could practically _hear_ her blushing.

            “Think nothing of it,” he sat up and grinned, noting that she had turned away but what he could see of her neck had flushed a furious red.  Glancing around the room as he brushed the robe back into place, his grin faded a bit.  The room was spartan, and that even by tower standards.  “This is…cozy,” he grimaced slightly as he stood.

            “This is my sister’s room,” Beth said softly as she turned back toward him, the heat slowly fading from her cheeks.  “All work, and little else,” she reached down and smoothed the rough woolen blanket that covered a neatly made bed. 

            “What is it that she does,” he asked cocking his head to the side as he looked at the armor stand in the corner next to the window. 

            “She’s a blacksmith,” Bethany beamed with pride, “and a damn fine one, too.  You won’t find better without making a trip to Denerim.” 

            “She made this, then?”  He gestured toward the armor as he glanced back at her and cursed himself as he caught the shift in her eyes. 

            “No,” Beth told him quietly as she joined him by the stand.  “This belonged to our father.”  Reaching out, she ran the tips of her fingers over a collar of snow white fur that draped around the wearer’s neck from a bevor that sat against the sternum, protecting the chest and neck. 

            A little stab of envy went through Anders as he took the set in.  That Bethany’s father had been a _mage_ and had worn such a well-made suit of armor was beyond his imagining.  It really was a fine piece of workmanship – a work of art, really – he thought as he noted the detail that had been put into it.  A deep red tunic made of supple leather was augmented by panels of blackened chain mail along the torso and right arm.  A spiked, armor plate was paired to a dark brown leather mount for the right pauldron, and a single metal gauntlet with cruelly tipped fingers fit over a brown leather glove with a matched vambrace.  While the left arm didn’t have the same armor plating as the right and the chain mail for that side stopped just above the bicep, it did have a heavy leather sleeve that had been worked till the material felt like velvet between his fingers and was stained a beautiful, deep black that trailed down to the wrist where he found the other glove. 

            Nearly every piece of metal he could see had the same blackened technique applied to it except a small swirling design on the bevor that had been inlaid with gold foiling.  That was a curiosity in and of itself, as the cost to protect even a single piece of metal from rust in this manner was beyond what any common peasant would be able to afford, so to have an _entire_ suit of armor that had been acid dipped and coated must’ve cost a small fortune.  It stank of nobility somewhere, and Anders wasn’t entirely certain he cared for that.  Looking closer, he realized the bevor was barely big enough to cover the heart and lungs.  Normally this piece would be attached to a cuirass or paired with a gorget for maximum protection to the chest and neck, but this one sat atop a layer of chain mail, so provided much more protection than he had initially thought while still allowing for free movement.  At the collar bone level, the piece jutted outward and sloped away from the body for several inches allowing the wearer to turn their head as desired without obstruction while still protecting from a sword stroke.

            A matched set of black leather leggings accompanied the tunic, with the left leg covered in the same blackened chain mail the chest piece had been.  Sturdy brown leather held poleyns in place that shared the same spikey design as the pauldron above a pair of greaves and sabatons that seemed to fit seamlessly together over a sturdy pair of dark brown boots.  A wicked looking spur jutted from the bottom edge of the greaves to extend behind the boot before curving down and Anders pitied any horse that felt them against its sides. 

            A wide leather belt fringed at top and bottom with more of the snow white fur circled the waist of the armor stand and Anders couldn’t help but think how it brought the whole ensemble together.  Reaching out a hand, he pinched the edge of a leather strap between his fingers and rubbed it wonderingly.  “So soft,” he whispered. 

            “Yes,” Bethany smiled at him again, “My sister has put forth every effort to maintain it.  Maker knows why,” she huffed a little laugh as her eyes fixed on a point on the wall above the armor stand.  “The only one that cares about it is her.  I mean I do, too, don’t get me wrong,” she corrected herself and glanced at him quickly.  “It’s just, mother very much _doesn’t_ care what happens to it because all she _does_ care about these days is what happens to Carver, and Carver would see it sold to pay his tab at the pub.  As for me…”  She trailed off with a shrug and a lop sided smile that said she wasn’t sure exactly what expression she should have on her face.

            “What do you want,” he found himself asking and looked at her intently because suddenly her answer _mattered_ and he wasn’t sure why other than maybe if he could help her – even if it was only with her own tangled up emotions – then he could somehow repay the kindness she was showing him. 

            “I wouldn’t know how to take care of it,” she brushed at a few stray hairs, shoving them behind her ear as she glanced at the floor.  “And I wouldn’t know what a fair price would be to sell it.”

            “I didn’t ask about what you can or cannot do,” Anders told her.  “I asked what _you_ want.”

            Bethany pondered this for a moment as she gazed at her father’s armor, really _looking_ at it this time.  “I guess,” she said slowly, “that I want it to be preserved.  In case any of us have children, I want them to know about mom and dad and what they did to be happy.  This is a piece of that.”  This time, when she smiled, he could see it in her eyes. 

 

            Godwin sneezed and then snuffled, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.  Someone was talking about him, or was that when your ears itched?  He could never quite remember.  Maybe he was coming down with a cold?  That thought was quite dreadful and he would certainly give Anders or Karl a piece of his mind the next time he saw either of them.  Of course, odds were high that he wouldn’t see Karl ever again, really.  Mages that went to the Kirkwall Circle might as well fall into the void.  Anders was another story, though.  If there was anything at all he could be absolutely certain of, it’s that the Templars would eventually return to the Circle with a bruised and beaten Anders in tow. 

            In the meantime, all Godwin had to do was wait.  He paced around the cell and sighed, wishing the Templars would hurry up and find him.  Plus, bring him food.  That would be good; his stomach had already told him it was well past breakfast and nearing on lunch and no one had so much as checked on him yet.  So this was what solitary confinement was like.  A twinge of sympathy for what Anders must have to endure in the damp, chilly dungeons was quickly forgotten by the rumble of his belly.  Sitting on the edge of the musty smelling cot, Godwin pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them for warmth. 

            “They could at least bring meals on time,” he muttered and then set himself to glaring at the stairs leading down to the cell block, resolved not to let up until someone brought him some food.

 

            “Of all the…ridiculous…sodding forsaken…”

            The mumbling went on at the edge of her hearing as Shattered groaned, her eyelids fluttering to open against a piercing brightness that cheerfully spiked pain through her temples.  She groaned again, and squeezed her eyes shut.  Even to her own ears the sound was sad and pathetic.  Struggling to push herself upright, her scrambled mind picked at inconsequential details before it skittered away, unable to focus through the migraine that still gripped her – a side effect from the double smiting she’d received before the Templars had, no doubt gleefully, thrown her into the dungeon cell she now occupied. 

            The cot beneath her smelled of stale straw and mold.  There was a skittering noise across the floor, perhaps a bug?  Hopefully it was a bug.  Even a very large spider would be preferable to a rat.  Maker!  Could it be a rat?  She really didn’t want to think about rats in the dungeon; the thought of them gnawing on her bones – as they must’ve done to the forgotten mages on the way to the repository – would’ve turned her stomach, had she not already been nauseous.  The clomping of armored feet pierced her ears and she cringed, clenching her teeth tightly against the pain in her head.  Someone was pacing the length of the cell block and back, quite angrily by the sound of it. 

            “Can’t believe…bloody idiot…piece of my mind…”  The footsteps grew louder as the mumbler drew closer.  

            Raising a hand to shade her eyes against the torchlight, Shattered cautiously opened her eyes to peer at the pacer when she judged him to be outside her cell.  The outline of a man in full Templar plate wavered in her vision, a shadow surrounded by a bright halo of torchlight, but there was no doubt in her mind who it was.  The hunched shoulders and tightly curled fists could only belong to one man. 

            “Cullen,” she asked weakly, her voice coming out in a cracked whisper.  Sha cleared her throat to try again, but he had heard and rushed toward her stopping only when the bars made him. 

            Reaching up, Cullen gripped them tightly and gave a little jerk as though he could shake her through them.  With his face pressed close to the bars, he started yelling at her.

            “Do you have any idea what you’ve done,” he shouted.  “What _were_ you thinking!  Of all people, I would least expect this from you! The treachery…it just…I…Gah!”  Cullen threw his hands into the air and backed away from the bars, frustration and pain twisting his features. 

            “Cullen, I –,“ Shattered shook her head, trying to clear her muddled mind. 

            “I don’t want to hear it,” he ground out from between clenched teeth.  A shadow marred his handsome face, turning his bright eyes dark and Sha sucked in a breath.  The man before her was far from the shy guardian who had watched over her for two seasons with gentle awkwardness and endearing stutters.  This was a Templar in all his righteous fury.   

            His tirade was about more than a mage breaking Chantry law, although that was bad enough in his eyes.  The darkness she could see in him right now was a man’s wounded pride.  Comprehension dawned on Sha and her eyes widened slightly as she realized the root of his anger was personal feelings of betrayal.  In the Templar’s mind, she hadn’t just broken the Tower’s rules; she had turned her back on his beliefs as well. 

            “No, Cullen, his –“

            “I said, I don’t want to hear it,” he roared and she could feel him instinctively pulling holy power to him.  In his anger, would he really smite her again?  His eyes flashed and in her blurred vision, the torchlight halo around him glowed brighter.  Mouth suddenly gone dry, Shattered swallowed.

            “It’s not destroyed,” she struggled to her feet only to sink to the floor after taking a step toward the bars on quivering legs.  Queasiness welled up and Sha leaned forward till she was on her hands and knees on the grimy floor.  Dirt and grit covered the masonry blocks that swam in her vision, her fingers quickly coated in a layer of filth as they slid against the rough surface.  Sha’s throat worked convulsively as she tried to keep from throwing up.

            “What did you say,” Cullen asked quietly from the bars, once again gripping them so tightly Sha fleetingly imagined she could hear the metal groan under its layer of rust. 

            “Jowan’s phylactery,” she gulped, swallowing the sudden flood of saliva that was in her mouth, “I didn’t destroy it; it’s still in the chamber.”

            From the other side of the bars, Cullen cursed and she heard a jingle of keys before he found the right one and opened her cell door.  Just before Sha succumbed to the nausea, a bucket was trust before her and she had a moment to feel a strange mix of gratitude and shame before erupting watery bile into it while Cullen averted his gaze. 

 

            “There’s nothing we can do to protect her from this,” Greagoir’s face was flushed red with anger as he leaned forward over his desk, palms pressed flat against its worn surface.  Across from him, First Enchanter Irving sighed in a manner that suggested he was weary clear to his bones and only continued plodding along because he’d come far enough that turning around now would actually be harder than enduring what was to come. 

            “Without her participation, we wouldn’t have discovered the Initiate’s connection.”  Irving spoke in a patient tone, having decided long ago that no matter how passionate he felt about the subject, it was always better to keep his temper in check when dealing with the Knight-Commander. 

            “Right,” Greagoir snorted.  “A lot of good it does us knowing when the Maleficar killed her right in front of us.” 

            “What if I had requested Shattered’s assistance in the investigation,” Irving asked, steepling his fingers together and raising his shaggy grey eyebrows. 

            “We would both know it for the lie it is,” Greagoir replied softly.  His shoulders sagged and he scrubbed at his face.

            “But would it be enough to protect her from the Grand Cleric?”

            Tiredness swept through Greagoir.  The two of them had been at it since they’d left the infirmary in the middle of the night.  Despite knowing it was Jowan who had used blood magic against them, there had been far too many templars present to just make Shattered’s involvement ‘go away’.    The two argued back and forth trying to come to an agreement on how best to protect the girl they both cared for. 

            “The Grand Cleric would see right through that,” Greagoir scoffed.  “She’d immediately want to know why we thought it was okay to risk her being corrupted by a suspected blood mage.”

            “I’m beginning to think we’re running out of acceptable options,” Irving droned.  He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and raised an eyebrow expectantly at Greagoir.

            “We ran out of acceptable options well before dawn,” Greagoir said.  He shook his head and stood, pacing over to the window in his office.  Outside, wavelets rippled peacefully across Lake Calenhad’s surface.  The view was normally calming, but today Greagoir felt the serenity mocked him; it was a sharp contrast to the increasing panic he felt rising in his chest.  “The Grand Cleric will order me to execute her,” he said flatly.  Sensing he wasn’t finished, Irving sat quietly, head tilted slightly as he listened.  “Barring that, she will order the girl into solitary confinement for so long she will go mad, or the demons will take her and _then_ I’ll be ordered to execute her.” 

            He shook his head and turned back toward his old friend.  “Either way, she will die and it will be nothing more than a show of power and an act of cruelty.  An example will be made of her, that the other mages might quiver in fear and think twice before crossing the Chantry’s law.” It wasn’t hard to recognize the bitterness in the Knight-Commander’s voice.

            “If it comes to that,” Irving said, his face reflecting the seriousness Greagoir heard in his voice, “it would be a kindness to her to end it quickly.” 

            “Maker,” Greagoir slumped down in his chair and rubbed his forehead, “I’m not sure I could follow through with such a task, should it come to that.  In what world would a divine being take pleasure in such a thing?”  It wasn’t the first time in his service to the Chantry that it had made Greagoir question his faith in the Maker, but even thinking of the possibilities made the Knight-Commander wonder if maybe this would be the hardest to overcome. 

            “I could –,“ Irving broke off, his brows raised questioningly as a commotion started in the hall.  Schooling their expressions, the two leaders stood as the sound of shouting grew louder. 

            Greagoir straightened his tabard and moved from behind his desk toward the door, reaching it a moment after whoever was shouting had started pounding relentlessly on the other side. 

            Cullen tumbled into the Knight-Commander’s office when Greagoir opened the door.  He staggered, trying to catch his balance and only just managed to keep from falling to the floor with Irving’s help as the First Enchanter clasped him firmly by the elbow. 

            “Report,” Greagoir barked sternly, all trace of his earlier weariness erased by the urgent look on Cullen’s face. 

            “There’s still time,” Cullen panted, his chest heaving as though he’d run the entire length of Templar Hall. 

            “What do you mean, man?  Spit it out,” Greagoir demanded.  He felt a tightening in his gut and the cold fingers of dread gripped him tightly.  What more could possibly go wrong today?

            “She didn’t destroy the phylactery,” the words tumbled from Cullen’s mouth between gasped breathes.  “He can’t have gotten far!  The blood mage could still be within our grasp!”

            A shared look of relief passed between Irving and Greagoir as they both straightened.  “Show us,” the Knight-Commander ordered roughly, and Cullen nodded turning on his heel to hurry back the direction he’d come from.  She would still be punished; he knew that.  The Chantry wouldn’t let such a transgression slide when an example could be made instead.  Having Jowan’s phylactery, though, when Shattered had supposedly aided in its destruction, went a long way to saving her from the worst of her fates. 

           

            “Don’t look now,” Daveth whispered from behind Alistair, “but I think that Chantry sister is after you again.” 

            Alistair stiffened where he sat, not sure which he found more unnerving – Sister Abigail, or the thief’s ability to sneak up behind him.  He wasn’t one to question Duncan’s choices on whom to recruit into the Wardens, but a pickpocket? Really!  And a lecherous one at that.  If there was a female in all of Ostagar, Chantry sisters included, that Daveth hadn’t tried to put ‘the moves’ on, Alistair would be hard pressed to find her.  He grimaced into his plate of fried potato hash and runny eggs, suddenly wishing he’d grabbed a hunk of cheese and a crust of bread and taken off into the woods before Sister Abigail had a chance to ruin second breakfast. 

            “Oh, there you are Alistair!”   The girl called as she walked into the Warden’s section of the war camp. 

            With a sigh, Alistair stuck his fork in his plate and stood up from the log he’d been sitting on.  Even here, in what he considered his ‘safe’ place surrounded by fellow Wardens, she had sought him out.  “Sister Abigail,” he forced a smile, the manners that had been beaten into him by Arlessa Isolde and the Chantry Brothers taking over automatically, “What can I do for you?”

            “There are some missives that need delivered to several of the faction leaders within the war camp,” she smiled and glanced at Alistair’s plate as she tucked her shoulder length, brown hair behind her ear.  “It’s for the Revered Mother, not me.  Not really.”

            “I see,” Alistair sighed and reached for the messengers pouch when Abigail held it out to him.  If her hand lingered longer than necessary, brushing his in the exchange, he pretended not to notice. 

            “I’m sorry to have interrupted your meal,” she offered brightly.  “I didn’t realize Grey Wardens ate so late in the day.”

            “Oh, don’t you be sorry, miss,” Daveth laughed and Sister Abigail glanced at him as though noticing the man standing behind and slightly to the side of Alistair for the first time.  “These fellows eat six or seven times a day if they can manage it,” he grinned and Alistair had a hard time not rolling his eyes as he recognized Daveth starting with ‘the moves’.  As far as he could tell, the man got slapped more often than he was taken up on his offers.  If that was what ‘the moves’ were all about, Alistair was quite happy not knowing anything about them, thank you very much. 

            “Have to keep our strength up,” Alistair shrugged apologetically and gave Sister Abigail a small smile. 

            “Of course you do.”  The smile she returned was obviously over-eager, and Alistair shifted uncomfortably caught in its beaming rays.  “Well,” the smile faltered a bit as the lull in their conversation stretched toward awkward and she looked down to brushed at her robes as though she’d somehow gotten dirt or leaves on them, “when you’ve finished with…”

            “Second breakfast,” Alistair supplied helpfully. 

            “Yes, of course.  Second breakfast,” finished brushing at her clothes she smiled up at him again, although a little less eager this time.  “The messages can wait until after you’ve finished.  They’re nothing important, but they do need delivered at first chance.”

            “Oh, I could do it for you if you like, miss,” Daveth sent a languid smile in the sister’s direction as he eyed her up and down.

            “I – Thank you, no,” Abigail flushed bright pink as Daveth’s eyes lingered on the swell of her bosom.  “I trust this to Alistair’s capable hands.”

            “Oh, he’s got capable hands all right,” Daveth chuckled and mimicked squeezing a pair of breasts in the air.

            Blushing into ever darker blotches, Sister Abigail stammered a moment before bidding them good day and fleeing the Warden’s enclave in embarrassment. 

            “You’re an arse,” Alistair said as he sat back down. 

            “Who would’ve thought she was such a stick in the mud with the way she ogles you all the time,” Daveth shook his head.  “Gotta admit, it was funny though,” he stepped over the log and sat down next to Alistair with a grin. 

            Shoveling cold egg off his plate into his mouth, Alistair made a face.  “I’m not sure whether I should hit you, or thank you,” he said around the food in his mouth. 

            “Why’s that,” Daveth asked as he looked around the Warden Camp.  There were several thick logs like the one they sat on now positioned in an octagon around a central cook fire that had already been banked till the next meal.  The Warden’s tents were aligned in a square around this central point with a space left open on the east side to allow access to and from the King’s camp.  As Warden Commander, Duncan had the honor of making his bed next to the Royal enclave.  That left Richu to watch over the other Wardens and recruits.  Right now, Richu was glaring at him across the way in a manner that sent a shiver up Daveth’s back and made his skin prickle. 

            “Well,” Alistair answered while still wolfing down his cold meal, “I’d thank you because Sister Abigail isn’t likely to venture to our little corner of Thedas again anytime soon.”  He paused a moment to swig from a canteen at his side.  “And I’d hit you because that was a Chantry Sister, for Maker’s sake!”

            “I’ll admit, not one of my finer moments,” Daveth grinned.  “How about you do neither and we call it even?”

            “How about I do both and you owe me one,” Alistair asked around a mouth full of potato.

            “Why would I owe you one,” Daveth asked, brows drawn together in confusion.

            Slowly, Alistair finished chewing what was in his mouth and turned to look at the pickpocket. Duncan had recruited him in Denerim shortly before the Wardens started the march to Ostagar, and Alistair didn’t think he would ever feel comfortable around the thief.  “Because you just stole my favorite dagger.”

            “Akk.  Ya caught me.”  A grin spread across Daveth’s face. 

 

            “You’ve done good, girl,” Greagoir said softly as he reached out to take Jowan’s phylactery from Shattered’s shaking fingers.  He turned it over in his hand and raised his brows when he noticed the name tag.  “ _Surana, Neria_ ,” he read out loud and then looked to her.  “Her phylactery is that one that was really destroyed,” he asked. 

            Biting her lip, Sha nodded.

            “Quick thinking,” Irving smiled at her and then turned to whisper to one of the templars that had escorted the trio into the phylactery chamber.  “Please fetch Miss Surana from her classes,” he pursed his lips for a moment as he thought, “She should be in Senior Enchanter Leorah’s class on potion making.”

            “Of course, First Enchanter.”  The Templar’s voice echoed behind his close faced helm as he touched his fist to his chest in a respectful salute before turning on his heel to collect the elf. 

            “What made you think to switch the labels,” Greagoir asked as he removed the loosely tied tag from Jowan’s vial. 

            A shudder ran through Shattered’s small frame as she recalled the dangerous gleam in her friend’s – _former_ friend, she corrected herself – eye as they had made their way through the repository.  “Something about it just seemed so…wrong,” she rubbed her hands up and down her arms trying to drive away the chill. 

            “Something,” Irving prompted.

            “I don’t know what, exactly,” Sha tried to explain.  “It just didn’t seem much like Jowan,” she said.  She sighed, her shoulders sagging.  “I’m sorry, I’m not much help at all,” she said quietly. 

            “You are far more help than you realize,” Greagoir told her in a rough voice.  He motioned toward the chamber door, indicating the two mages should precede him and the remaining templar squad fell in behind him.  “Without this, we wouldn’t be able to track the Maleficar.”  From over the Knight-Commander’s shoulder, Cullen offered Sha a small smile.

            “Yes, but without me, you wouldn’t need to track him,” Sha told him sadly as they emerged into the hallway. 

            “The girl is correct,” a sour voice stopped the group in their tracks as the Tower’s Revered Mother glared at them.  “She may be under the thrall of a blood mage even as we speak.” 

            “Revered Mother, surely –“

            “Don’t you ‘surely’ me, _Knight-Commander_ ,” the woman shrilled, and spittle flew from her mouth as rage darkened her face.  “You forget your _place_.  It is your _duty_ to keep these things,” she jabbed a knotted, arthritic finger at Shattered, “from wreaking havoc on those of us the Maker hasn’t cursed!  And this one,” she stepped toward Shattered and despite her frail aspect, the Templars behind Shattered stood straighter as though uneasy with her approach.  It took every ounce of Shattered’s will not to step backward, away from the woman.  “She would be put down if she weren’t already Harrowed.”  The Mother narrowed her eyes as she searched Sha’s face from less than a foot away. 

            Blinking her watery, grey eyes, Mother Beatrice harrumphed as though coming to a decision.  “Put Scold’s Bridle on her and place her in a cell for observation.”

            Shattered tried to ignore the sharp intake of breath from Irving and Greagoir, but she felt the blood draining from her face leaving her light headed.  As far as torture devices go, it could’ve been much worse.  The rack, for instance, would be constant agony.  Not that Scold’s Bridle was fun by any means.  At first glance, it wasn’t bad.  A metal mask that covered the wearer’s face was depersonalizing, but nothing more than uncomfortable.  However, that wasn’t where the device got its name.  The Bridle was named for the bit like piece of metal that penetrated the wearer’s mouth, similar to the bit of a horse’s bridle.  Covered in spikes, the bit made it impossible to talk without causing injury while the device was on. 

            “You can’t be suggesting –“

            “I most certainly _am_ suggesting she is a threat, Knight-Commander,” Revered Mother Beatrice turned blazing eyes toward Greagoir.  “If you have a problem doing your duties, I will find someone more _able._ ”  The threat was there, hanging between them for all to see and Sha knew the moment her fate was decided; Greagoir’s shoulders slumped in defeat. 

            Behind her, Cullen made a strangled noise but she wasn’t sure if it was an attempt to come to her defense or Greagoir’s because Irving grabbed his arm, stopping him from stepping forward.  The Revered Mother didn’t seem to notice how the other Templars shifted uncomfortably and murmured mutinously.  Knight-Commander Greagoir was a good man, many of the mages even thought so, and he had their loyalty as much as, if not more than, the Chantry. 

            The Mother’s eyes flicked back to Sha.  “She could be a thrall, a blood mage herself, or even possessed!  I’ll not have her fogging the men’s minds with whatever filth may slither from her wretched tongue.”  Her mouth scrunched up again as though she were sucking a prune and Shattered wondered how any normal being could make such a face.  Sha bit her tongue to keep from laughing at the thought.  Now was _not_ the time to start getting hysterical; that would be all the excuse the fanatical woman in front of her needed to lock her away and forget about her. 

            Greagoir faced her, and she offered him a soft smile that only seemed to deepen the sorrow she saw in his eyes.  “It’s okay,” she told him softly.  “I will go.”  A sound of protest came from behind her that could’ve only come from Cullen, but she kept her eyes on Greagoir’s face.  His mouth opened as though to say something then closed and she felt a wave of sadness not for herself, but for him. 

            Struggling from Irving’s grip, the younger Templar came forward to stand next to Greagoir.  “This isn’t right,” his hushed tone did nothing to hide the anger he felt that seethed beneath the surface. 

            “Ser Cullen,” Greagoir stared at the young man for a moment while the Mother waited impatiently.  “You will alert Knight-Lieutenant Irminric to form a hunting party immediately.  Give him this; he will know what to do,” Greagoir held out Jowan’s phylactery.

            “But, Knight-Commander!”

            “Now, Ser Cullen,” Greagoir growled, his brows drawn down as he scowled at his underling. 

            “I -,” Cullen looked from the vial in his hand to Shattered.   Desperation filled his eyes and Sha looked away biting her lip.  Today, two men had swallowed their ego for her, two proud men that she would never wish to see brought low and it had been her doing.  “Yes, Knight-Commander,” Cullen said softly and then turned to stiffly salute the Revered Mother before stalking away to find Ser Irminric. 

            “Hurry about it, boy!”  Greagoir bellowed after him, “Enough time’s been wasted already!”

            Once Cullen was out of sight, Greagoir sighed and ran his hand through his greying hair.  “Miss Amell,” he said and gestured for her to join him.  Stepping forward, Sha lightly touched his vambrace with her fingers and though Beatrice’s eyes narrowed, her mouth thinning into a tight line, she didn’t comment on the contact.

            “Good,” the Revered Mother managed to sound pleased and annoyed at the same time.  “You’ve proven your capability…for now.”  With a smug smile in place, she whirled about and marched down the hall, her Chantry robes swishing behind her and soft soled shoes whispering against the stone. 

            With a look of disgust on his face, Greagoir gazed after her and shook his head before turning to the remaining Templar escorts.  “Wait here,” he said roughly.  “When Miss Surana arrives, secure a new phylactery for her,” he almost turned away and then looked back to them as if having an afterthought.  “And be gentle about it for Andraste’s sake.”

            “Of course, Knight-Commander.”

            Satisfied, he nodded and then gently took Shattered’s hand and pulled it between his elbow and body before placing it on his forearm as though he were a gentleman escorting a noble lady.  “Shall we?” he asked softly.

            “We shall,” she answered and smiled at him, hoping to project more calm than she felt. 

 

            Blood rushed through his veins as Cullen raced through the Circle’s hallways, his boots pounding against the stone in time with the thunder of his heart beat as it crashed in his ears. 

            “Gang way,” he bellowed, scattering a group of first year apprentices that were chattering in the hall between classes.  Noises of complaint followed him but he didn’t bother to slow down as he reached the end of the circuitous hall and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.  Jowan’s phylactery was clenched tightly in his hand, momentarily forgotten in his search for the one man he knew could save his Shattered from whatever horrible fate the Revered Mother would think up for her next. 

            Reaching the top of the stairs, Cullen started sprinting toward the guest quarters hoping the Maker was in a listening mood. 

            “Warden Commander!  Warden Commander!”  He was still ten yards away when he started yelling for the Commander of the Grey and slid to a halt in front of the chamber door just as it opened. 

            “May I help you with something,” Duncan asked mildly.  He stood in the doorway in a blue velvet tunic so dark it was almost black with the Warden’s gryphon emblem stitched across the chest in silver embroidery and black leather breeches while holding a silverite greave in his left hand. 

            “I know you want her,” Cullen panted, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.  “You need to go now; you can save her where I have failed.” 

            If Duncan was surprised, his expression didn’t change enough to show it.  Instead, he stepped away from the door and gestured Cullen inside.


	20. Narrow Escape

# 20 – Narrow Escape

 

            “I am so sorry,” Greagoir whispered fiercely as he knelt before Shattered.  The dungeon floor was cold and it seeped through his armor into his old bones, but this was a task he wouldn’t trust to anyone else.  Sha sat in a heavy wooden armchair, her feet barely touching the floor, as the Knight-Commander gently applied wrist and ankle restraints.  The wide leather straps dwarfed her thin wrists and Greagoir made sure the heavy metal buckles had thick padding between them and her skin.  Her lips trembled as she watched him with glassy eyes, but her tears didn’t fall.  “It’s procedure, you understand?  I don’t want –“

            “It’s okay,” her voice was tiny and it cracked as she spoke.  Her knuckles turned white where she gripped the chair’s arms, but she didn’t move away or flinch even though her body trembled. 

            Slowly, Greagoir stood, his shoulders slumped and his face tired.  “I wish I didn’t have to do this,” he said as he reached out and cupped Shattered’s cheek with his work roughened fingers. 

            “I know.”  Her lips trembled as she offered him a small smile. 

            With a sigh, Greagoir turned to the templar standing behind him and opened the wooden box he held.  Reaching in with shaking fingers, he lifted out Scold’s Bridle.  He swallowed noisily.  “Try not to…move your mouth…with this on,” his voice cracked as he fingered the leather straps that would hold the bridle in place.  At first glance, it appeared to be an unfinished mask for a masquerade ball, a thought she might have normally found amusing. 

            But this was not an item that was a few artistic steps away from a happy memory with colored gowns, bright plumage, lively music and vibrant dancing.  This was nothing short of a Chantry authorized torture device.  It made a sort of twisted sense, really.  The Chantry would submit mages to horrors in the righteous name of Andraste and the Maker all the while preaching love and peace to the masses.  The thought was sobering and the color drained out of Shattered’s face as she looked at Scold’s Bridle in Greagoir’s hands.  She opened her mouth as if to say something, but no words would come.  Instead, she closed her mouth so that it was pressed into a thin line and nodded.

            “After…You’ll be placed in an observation cell.  They just need to make sure you’re not a thrall.  You understand?”

            Sha nodded and licked her lips.  Her eyes widened slightly when she caught sight of the prong that would be held in place in her mouth.  It was a two inch long, one inch wide wedge covered in small cone shaped spines that would rest against her tongue and the roof of her mouth.  It would be impossible not to pierce her flesh in one place or another even if she held perfectly still.  It would definitely keep a mage from coercing any of the templars sent to watch over them and the Chantry was nothing if not protective of their templars.  A single tear slipped through Shattered’s tight control to slide down her cheek.  It was as she’d always known – she was a bad girl and was to be punished just for being a mage. 

            Shattered took a deep, shuddering breath and blinked rapidly to try to keep her emotions in check. 

            “I’m so sorry,” Greagoir told her again right before Scold’s Bridle blocked out the light.

 

            Yanking at the straps holding her armor in place, Travisty stomped across the militia camping area and slung her pauldrons violently to the ground in front of her tent.  Dried blood was splattered in a large wedge across her breastplate starting from a point at the left of her chest and broadening till it disappeared off her right side. 

            “Problems in the field, sis,” Carver sneered from where he was seated on a nearby supply crate whittling. 

            Travisty glared at Carver.  “Not in the mood,” she growled as she worked at a side strap. 

            He answered with a grunt and dropped his gaze back to the wood in his hand.  “What’s the matter?  Not having fun playing hero?”

            “Men died out there today, Carver,” Trav’s voice was rough with anger and grief as she unhooked the last clasp to her breastplate and threw it to the ground.  “There was…there was,” Trav sucked in a deep breath, her shoulders shaking.  Reaching up, she pinched the bridge of her nose.  “The darkspawn ambushed us,” she said.  “Three men are dead.”  She huffed and dropped her hands to her hips as she looked at the ground.  “They were people we knew, Carver.  People we’ve seen nearly every day since we moved to Lothering.” 

            “Forgive me if I’m not all choked up about it,” Carver said sarcastically.  He rolled his eyes at Trav’s strangled cry.  “What,” he smirked as he glanced at her, “It’s not like we care about any of them,” he waved his knife at the rest of the camp.  “And it’s not like they care about us,” he shrugged, ignoring Travisty’s threatening advance.  “If word ever got out about Beth, the whole town would turn out for the witch hunt and you would be the first person to start hacking people’s heads off.”

            “You bastard!”  She growled and connected with a solid right hook that sent Carver sprawling to the ground.  Travisty stood over him trembling with rage, her fists tightly clenched.  “I would take Bethany and run before I started killing people we’ve counted as friends.  You talk about them as if they’re nothing more than waste.”

            “Because they are,” Carver replied, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth as he stood.    The more he talked, the louder he got.  “They’re nothing more than sloppy, second hand cunny and that’s something _no one_ needs.” 

            Travisty made a sound of rage and struck out at Carver again, but this time he was ready for her and ducked below her swing.  Overbalanced, she stumbled forward and he caught her below the diaphragm with an uppercut. 

            “Uumph,” the noise had a surprised tone as it was forced through her teeth but she was far from incapacitated as Carver, in his arrogance, had expected.  Instead, she grabbed Carver by the back of his neck with her right hand and over his shoulder with her left.  She stepped into him with her left foot and brought her right knee up into his groin, instantly dropping her brother to the ground. 

            “Oh, bitch,” Carver groaned as he clutched his crotch and writhed on the ground. 

            Leaning forward, Trav supported herself with her hands on her knees as she panted.  “Forgot I still had my cuisse on, didn’t you?” 

            “Mmmph….fuck you,” Carver hissed, his face a bright red and the veins throbbing in his forehead as spittle flew from his mouth.  He had flopped over so he was on his back glaring at her while he still held his tender bits.

            “Fuck you, too, brother,” Travisty gasped to catch her breath and stood upright.  “Fuck you, too.” 

 

            The door to Travisty’s room only squeaked a little when Bethany turned the knob and pushed it open a crack.  “Anders”, she whispered, and when she didn’t get an answer, she pushed at it again so she could see farther into the room. 

            To her surprise, it was empty.  Her mouth took on a rueful twist as she glanced around.  Everything was as she last saw it with the exception of the window, which she assumed Anders had used as an exit.  She walked across the room and looked out, glancing over the shorter grass behind the house toward the woods that started at the back of the holding.  Leaning against the window sill, Beth took a deep breath letting it out slowly as she wondered if Anders would find his peace.

            “What are you doing in here,” Leandra asked, startling her so that Bethany jumped as she spun to face the door.

            “Oh, I uhm…  Just thought I would let some fresh air in,” Bethany smiled.  She waved out the window.  “There won’t be many more days like this,” she said, “before winter sets in.”

            From the door, Leandra snorted.  “As you like,” she said with a wave of her hand.  “I’ll be heading to the market to get a few things,” she went on.  “I’ll be back before sundown.”

            “Be careful, mother,” Bethany replied, but Leandra had already left the doorway. 

            With a sigh, Bethany closed the window.  She glanced around the room and saw that the bed had been remade, but a scrap of parchment protruded slightly from under the pillow.  Curious, she picked it up and began reading the scrawling script written across it. 

                        _“Dear Sweet Lady Bethany – I apologize for my abrupt departure._

_I really should’ve said goodbye!  Sadly I am a poor gentleman to_

_leave a beautiful woman such as yourself without a single token of_

_my affection.  I’m afraid here I must further disappoint as I_

_devolve to petty crime.  I’ve ‘borrowed’ a set of your sister’s clothes_

_from the hope chest.  Please don’t get me wrong – I am far from a_

_cross dresser!  Don’t let the robes fool you; I am all that is man!_

_If only I had the time to show you.  Alas, our love was never_

_meant to be!  I will forever pine for you, my dear sweet Lady Bethany._

_xxx ooo”_

            Bethany laughed as she read over the last line a second time before a flick of her fingers turned the scrap to ash in a small burst of flame. 

 

            The mages enclave at Ostagar was exactly how Wynne expected it to be.  A few communal tents surrounded and closely watched by the Templar unit tasked to guard them.  She really shouldn’t be surprised, she supposed, because when the Chantry couldn’t keep its mages in the Tower, it moved the Tower to the mages.  Even in a situation as dire as this, with a Blight practically on their doorstep, the Chantry still wasn’t willing to let mages use their full power to help keep it in check. 

            Brushing her robes off, Wynne looked around to locate the nearest templar. 

            “Excuse me,” she said politely and then did her best to keep her face serene when the man huffed irritatedly inside his helm before answering.

            “What is it?”

            “I was wondering if you knew where I might find Uldred,” she asked. 

            The Templar snorted at her.  “Enchanter Uldred is in a tactical meeting with Teyrn Loghain.”

            “I see,” Wynne pursed her lips.

            “Move along then,” the Templar made a shooing gesture and Wynne chuckled as she moved off; the boy was probably young enough to be her son!  She glanced back at him curiously, but didn’t think even the Chantry was that sadistic. 

            It was fairly easy to find the Teryn’s pavilion in the Royale enclave.  Gaining access was another matter.  Armed guards stood at attention on either side of the entrance and Wynne got the feeling that they would run her through as soon as look at her if she tried to press the issue. 

            Which left her nothing to do but wait, so she settled against a tree and pulled a small notebook from her belt pouch.  It wasn’t her grimoire – she’d left that at the mage’s enclave along with a clean robe, her staff, and a few other odds and ends.  Instead, the notebook contained a collection of poems and even though she knew each of them by heart, it gave her comfort to have them be a physical weight in her hands that she could touch and feel as she read. 

            Glancing at the guards, Wynne decided it might be a very long wait ahead of her.

 

            “You cannot conscript her, I refuse!”  Revered Mother Beatrice slammed her hand down on her desk, sending scrolls scattering to all sides.  She stood glaring at Duncan who was standing across from her with a mild expression on his face.  “She is to be held in observation for demonic possession and if she’s lucky, I’ll let her keep her tongue after this fiasco.”  The Revered Mother wasn’t exactly a young woman anymore, though she still thought of herself as she was in the flower of her youth.  It startled her each time she saw her reflection that the soft brown hair she’d once possessed was now steel grey throughout.  She kept it pulled back in a tight bun that gave her a severe look and no doubt had given her premature wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth.  Or perhaps it was all the frowning that had given her the appearance of age, as she was doing now.  Her mouth and brows were drawn down in a fierce scowl, accentuating every crease on her weathered face.

            “My dear woman,” Duncan leaned forward slowly, his muscles rippling under his tunic like those of a panther moving beneath its coat while it hunted weaker prey.  He’d come straight to the Revered Mother’s office after leaving Cullen to the task of hunting down Ser Irminric and still hadn’t bothered to put his armor on.  “You don’t have the right to refuse her conscription,” he smiled, a baring of pearly white teeth behind an ebony beard and swarthy complexion. 

            “She very well could be a blood mage,” Beatrice complained, but it sounded petulant compared to her earlier, fierce rantings and Duncan’s smile widened because he knew he’d won.  Slowly lowering herself into her seat, Beatrice looked at him sharply.  “You Wardens don’t know how to _deal_ with blood mages.  Take someone else,” she gestured dismissively.  She had tried to make it sound as though the Tower was being magnanimous with this offer, but he knew it for the last ditch effort to deter him that it was.    

            “I’ll be taking her, Revered Mother,” he said as he straightened and tugged at the bottom hem of his tunic.  “There’s something most people don’t know about the Wardens,” he continued conversationally, but he had pulled a stiletto bladed dagger from its hidden sheath inside his forearm.   One thing Duncan never was, was unarmed.  Even if he were to be in nothing but his smalls, he would still have a weapon somewhere.  Holding the grip lightly between his thumb and forefinger, Duncan let the tip drag across the Mother’s desktop as he walked to the end of it.  “You see, the Wardens aren’t all that picky about whom they recruit,” he rounded the corner of the desk, tip still dragging across the surface to leave an uneven track scored in the wood.  “They recruit knights, nobles, and pickpockets alike.”  Duncan turned when he’d traversed the width of the desk and was now only a stride away from where Revered Mother Beatrice sat with her eyes opening ever wider with each step till they appeared to be bugging from her face. 

            Stopping when he reached her, Duncan stuck the stiletto into her desk and then rested both hands on the arms of Beatrice’s chair as he slowly leaned down toward her.  Trapped, Beatrice shrank away from him, realizing to late that he’d imprisoned her between his thick arms.  He was smiling and she could feel his warm breath on her face as he spoke.  “They even conscript murderers.  Like me.”  His grin broadened when she gave him a sharp look.  “However, we are on our way to a blight, so I would think you’d _want_ to send your trouble makers off to the Wardens,” he stood, pulling away from her quickly and in the blink of an eye, the dagger had disappeared from her desk back into its sheath.  “After all, the odds of a Warden dying go up dramatically during those times.”

            “What are you trying to say,” Beatrice’s voice trembled slightly as she asked the question.  Turning away from her, Duncan returned to the far side of her desk. 

“Even if this girl is a blood mage, she will have to fight the darkspawn.  And she will probably die fighting them – the new ones always do, no real combat experience, you understand,” he winked conspiratorially at her and Beatrice shuddered slightly.  “So I have another body to throw in the fighting, you get a potentially dangerous mage away from your precious tower,” he waved dismissively at their surroundings, “And you get to say you helped out the Commander of the Grey during a dire time in Fereldon history.”  He smiled at her again, and it struck Beatrice just how deadly calm he’d been since entering her office.  “You get to make the Chantry look good to the Fereldons, and you can honestly report aiding the Wardens to the Divine, making yourself look good.”

            “You are a shrewd man,” Beatrice said as she eyed him. 

            “And a dangerous one,” Duncan replied with a flash of teeth. 

            She slumped in her chair, having no doubt he spoke the truth.  Though she didn’t want to give up the suspected blood mage, he did have a point.  She could twist the politics of the moment to suit her needs.  Plus, denying the Warden Commander the right of conscription was a dangerous thing – if he reported that Fereldon was uncooperative to the Grey Warden leadership in Weisshaupt, they may very well issue command to the Fereldon Wardens to relocate.  Then if this nonsense in the south really did turn out to be a Blight, the Wardens would patiently sit along the border waiting for the Archdemon to finish ravaging the land before moving in to stop its advance.  Even if Fereldons lived through that mess, there would be no Fereldon to call home. 

            Or he would just kill her and be done with it.  The Revered Mother swallowed quickly at the thought and silently cursed Duncan when she noticed his sharp eyes pick up on it. 

            “Very well,” she acquiesced.  “I will sign the paper work for Miss Amell’s release.”  With a flourish, Duncan pulled the conscription writ from his belt pouch, unfolding the square parchment so that she could sign it.  The name was already filled in, she noted, and cast a sour look in his direction.  “There,” she added the wax seal of her station below her scrawled signature and handed the parchment back to him.  “Now be gone!”  With a violent wave of her hand, Beatrice gestured Duncan toward the door and, with an amused smirk, he bowed to her while murmuring his farewell.

            As soon as the Warden Commander had exited her office, Revered Mother Beatrice shakily poured herself a goblet of spiced wine from the sideboard.  The man had a very shrewd mind in the manner of politics, and knew exactly how to manipulate her into doing as he asked.  Was he truly a murderer she wondered?  Glancing at her desk, Beatrice’s eyes fell on the gouge that marred the once smooth surface of her desk.  It was made from an exotic Antivan tree known as a peltogyne that polished to a lush purple hue.  Oh how she had coveted it.  Now, she could see exactly where the stiletto blade had marred the surface and she shuddered thinking how the same blade would’ve marked her flesh. 

            Gulping down the contents of her goblet, Revered Mother Beatrice reached for the earthenware pitcher to pour herself another glass. 

 

            At first, she’d tried to keep from drooling by swallowing her saliva, but that only pierced her tongue on the sharp little cones.  Now, saliva and blood seeped through her teeth to slide down the inside of the mask and drip from her chin.  Shattered scrubbed at it with her hand and cringed at the slimy, sticky feel it left behind on her skin.  Whimpering, she leaned forward and curled in on herself.  She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.  Leaning her head forward, Shattered cried.

           

“She’s still in the observation cells,” Greagoir said quietly as he strode down the hall with Duncan and Irving in tow.  The men walked quickly, their steps echoing loudly off the stone walls.  “How did you get the Revered Mother to agree to this,” he asked hesitantly.  It still didn’t sit quite right with him that he and Irving had been trying to avoid the exact thing that was now their salvation.

            “You probably don’t want to know,” Duncan’s voice was rough when he answered and the look on his face was grim; Greagoir decided to take him at his word. 

            “Through here.”  They ducked to the left through an archway to a poorly lit set of stairs.  After three steps down, Greagoir rapped against a heavy wooden door.  A sliding peep hole opened and a pair of grey eyes peered through the opening at them. 

            “Knight-Commander,” a muffled voice spoke from the other side of the door.  “What’s the password?” 

            “Farrell,” Greagoir groaned, “Just open the damn door.”

            The grey eyes flicked from Greagoir to Irving and Duncan before going back to Greagoir.  “Yes, Knight-Commander.”  The peep hole slid shut and they could hear several bolts being unlocked from the other side before the door swing open on its squeaky hinges. 

            Once inside, Farrell turned several tumblers behind them and dropped a crossbar into place.  “This way, Knight-Commander,” Farrell told them and waved them to follow as he walked through the narrow hall. 

            “This doesn’t look like the rest of the tower,” Duncan observed as they passed by what appeared to be newer masonry bricks.  They were still very old, but didn’t have the same style or construction technique as the rest of the tower.  It was as though they had been added long after the original construction.

            “At some point early in the Circle’s history, the need for observation cells became apparent,” Greagoir recited in a monotone. 

            Understanding lit Duncan’s eyes.  “So they built little stone boxes to lock mages in.”  He snorted and shook his head, casting his eyes to the side as they passed by a set of templars on either side.  There was another set twenty feet past the first and a third pair twenty feet after that.  “How many mages do you have down here, Knight-Commander?”

            “Just the one,” Greagoir sounded tired. 

            “A bit of overkill for one little mage, don’t you think,” Duncan’s voice was hard and his eyes narrowed slightly.

            “There are standard procedures that have been set forth by the Chantry and must be followed,” Greagoir sounded irritated, but resigned.  He stopped hesitantly outside an oaken door with a crossbar similar to the one that had been closed behind them.  The nearest templar turned and peered through a small gap in the stone bricks of the cell wall and then looked to Greagoir and nodded.  “The Revered Mother had a restraint device placed on her,” he said, glancing meaningfully to Irving and Duncan.  “Prepare yourselves.”  Even though he had passed his prime, Greagoir’s sharp gaze still noted the tightening around Duncan’s eyes. 

            Signaling to the templar guards on either side, Greagoir stepped back as the pair lifted the crossbar from the door.  He waited for a moment, none of the usual confidence of a Knight-Commander present while he stared at the door.  Then after taking a deep breath he reached out and pushed it open. 

            She was sitting in the far corner, curled up into a tight ball of misery when the three men entered her cell. 

            “Shattered,” Greagoir called softly, and then brought a hand to his mouth to cover his gasp when she raised her head.  The bridle had only been on a few hours, and already there was an alarming amount of blood staining Shattered’s robes.  It dripped down her chin and neck, spreading across her chest in a ruby fan.  The blank face of the mask tipped toward her guests and all could see the hollow gleam of her eyes through the two narrow slits set in its face.


	21. Not By Choice

# 21 – Not by Choice

 

            The sails were closer today.  Those Orlesians were really persistent.  And colorful.  A broad pennant flapped gaily atop the mast of the frigate chasing them, its gold and purple fluttering in the breeze.  Isabela ground her teeth.  She glared through her brass spyglass at the ship the Orlesian Royal Navy had sent for her.  It bobbed with the low rising waves that rippled the otherwise calm sea, topping the crests and then dipping into the troughs as it glided along. 

            There was too much weight on her ship, and she knew it; not even the _Siren’s Call_ could outrun the quicker, lighter ships chasing them.  Isabela collapsed her spyglass, the metal smooth and cool against her damp palm, and chewed on her thumb nail.  A waft of spice cut through the salty tang of sea right before strong hands firmly grabbed ahold of Isabela’s hips from behind. 

            “The Orlesians hang slavers,” Isabela said, her pouty lips turned downward. 

            “Only the ones they catch.”  She could feel Devon’s lips smile against her neck sending shivers across her skin. 

            “They will catch us,” she said, stepping away and jutting her chin toward the hold, “You’ve got too many packed in down there.”  On a personal level, the Tevinter noble made her skin absolutely _crawl_ ; her body just hadn’t gotten the message yet.  However, Devon was her liaison to the _Felicisima Armada_ and Isabela owed them _big_.  This run was supposed to bring the books even, but that wouldn’t matter if she were dead. 

            “You’ll think of something,” Devon smirked as he leaned against the railing next to her.  “You always do.” 

            The deck rocked beneath her feet as the _Siren’s Call_ fought against the waves, plowing through them instead of riding over like the Orlesian ship.  Normally, that was the feeling of freedom and power.  It could send a jolt straight to her lady bits just at the thought.  Not today, however.  Today, it felt like she was trapped.  Trapped on her own ship and by the Maker how she hated it. 

            What to do, what to do…Isabela chewed on her thumb nail again.  “They’ll be on us tomorrow morning.  Afternoon, at the latest.” 

            “Well then, we’ll just have to figure something out before then, won’t we?”  The left side of his mouth twisted up as he looked to Isabela.  She wanted to wipe that smug look off his face, preferably by ripping every hair out of his perfectly manicured goatee.  Not that she minded facial hair, specifically, or any hair for that matter, but when it came to _him_ she’d rather like to see him hung by the short and curlies.  If she were being honest, he hadn’t even been that good of a distraction, really; their cargo had always been in the back of her mind.

            Looking through her spyglass a second time brought a deeper frown to Isabela’s face.  “There’s another ship,” she forced through clenched teeth.   

            “What?  Where,” Devon straightened up, gripping the handrail and leaning forward.  He squinted across the water, a hand held over his brow to shield the sun’s glare, as if he expected to be able to see the second ship with the naked eye.  Finally he turned to her and said, “I don’t see anything.  You’re imagining things.”  He smiled as he spoke, but Isabela could hear the nerves Devon tried to hide behind his cocky veneer and pearly white teeth. 

            “Its sails just crested the horizon, smart guy,” she collapsed her spyglass again and slipped it back into a leather case.  “Persistent bastards,” she chewed her bottom lip for a moment as she thought.  “There may be a way…”  Without finishing her sentence, Isabela turned on her heel and strode forward across the poop deck.  She hopped the three steps to the quarter deck, her thigh high brown leather boots clicking when the soles hit wood planking and then she was on the move again across the _Siren’s_ rolling deck.

            There was a chance, a _small_ chance, that she could lose them in a cove near Kont-arr if she could just keep the _Siren_ a little ahead.  Of course, that brought along with it the risk of encountering the Qunari, and she would need the Maker’s own damn luck to get away from them.  There was an even better chance if they could get through the Venefication Sea into the Nocen Sea.  Then, they’d be off the coast of the Tevinter Imperium and the Orlesian Navy wouldn’t be able to touch them.  If they could only get through the Venefication Sea…

            Isabela slammed the door to her cabin open and strode across to her map desk.  Grabbing her compass, she started plotting a course that _might_ save her just enough time to escape the Orlesians.  If it didn’t kill her.

 

            With a gasp, Sha jerked upright in her bed.  Desperate fingers flew to her face, scratching at it, searching for the horror she’d felt there in her dreams while a scream fought against her clenched teeth. 

            “You’re okay,” a deep voice softly rumbled next to her and Sha flinched, her heart still pounding a quick rhythm in her chest despite the assurance.  Frightened eyes flicked to the man sitting beside her bed, a dagger in one hand and a whetstone in the other.  “The healers have seen to your wounds.”

            “Warden Commander,” she whispered through the tightening in her throat.  A sinking feeling grew in her stomach like a great gaping maw had opened to swallow her from the inside; surely, it hadn’t been a dream. 

            “Duncan, if you please.”  A flash of white teeth shown through his neatly trimmed beard as he smiled at her, contrasting sharply with his dark complexion and ebony hair.  Leaning back in his chair, Duncan rest the hand holding the whetstone against his thigh while he examined the blade of his dagger.  Swallowing against the urge to vomit, Sha’s eyes flicked to the weapon.  Her sharp eyes noted the intricate tooling that worked the Warden’s gryphon symbol into the blade.  “Beautiful, isn’t it,” he asked when he saw the direction her gaze had taken.  Gripping the hilt lightly between his finger tips and thumb, he turned his wrist to show off the lightness and balance of the blade. 

            “It’s Warden issue,” he explained, sheathing the dagger in a black leather scabbard and pocketing the stone.  Shifting in the seat, Duncan leaned his elbows on his knees.  “Not that you’re required to use the equipment we give you,” he continued, his strong hands still holding the weapon, thumbs absently rubbing circles on the sheath.  “I just find that most of our recruits don’t have a suitable weapon or armor,” there was a quick flash of teeth again and Shattered realized that while Duncan had talked, she had calmed a bit, the horrible memory of Scold’s Bridle fading to the background while she was mesmerized by the Warden Commander’s deep,  rumbling voice. 

            “So, I’m to be a Warden, then?”  She was sure she already knew the answer, but felt it important to hear the words spoken out loud anyway. 

            “Yes,” he eyed her, dark brown eyes searching her face.  She glanced away, taking a slow breath.  All she’d ever known, could ever remember, was being part of the Tower under the watchful eyes of the Templar that stood ready to strike her down at any moment. 

            “What’s going to happen,” she asked quietly as she picked at the light blanket that lay over her.  Nervously, her fingers smoothed and straightened it, flicking at imagined lint. 

            “We’ll be leaving for Ostagar tomorrow morning,” he said as he watched her.  “When we arrive, we’ll be joining the other Wardens already there, as well as a couple of other recruits.  There are a few formalities that will need seen to before you are officially a member of the Order, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.” 

            Slim fingers clenched in her blanket, fisting tightly for a moment before going back to smoothing the fabric.  “And the Templars,” she asked with a tremble in her voice.

            Reaching out, Duncan covered her fidgeting fingers with his much larger hand to still them.  Her hand was so cold it was like grabbing a piece of ice, but he held on, gripping tighter when a lesser man might have let go.  He made sure she turned to meet his eye before he said, “You are no longer a ward of the Templars.” 

            Most mages, when told they would no longer have to supplicate to the whims of the Tower or Chantry, would rejoice in their new found freedom.  If Duncan expected the same reaction from Shattered, he was gravely disappointed. 

            Violet eyes darted nervously around the room as her breath quickened and her heart sped up.  “I can’t breathe,” she gasped, her chest heaving and even though he felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees, sweat stood out on Shattered’s forehead.  She clenched his fingers tightly in hers to the point of pain, her knuckles blanched white from the pressure.

            “Shattered?  Shattered look at me,” he commanded, moving from his chair to kneel at the edge of her bed.  Reaching out his free hand, Duncan cupped her cheek.  As the edges of her vision started going dark, Sha looked at Duncan with tear filled eyes.  Rubbing his thumb gently along her cheekbone, he spoke to her, voice rumbling even in the quiet tones he used to sooth her.  “I’m right here, Shattered.  Breathe with me.  That’s it, in and out,” he praised as her halting gasps tried to match his rhythm.  “I’m going to be right by your side, okay?  No one is going to hurt you.” 

            “Yu-you’re going to be there,” she asked through hitching breaths. 

            “That’s right,” he soothed, offering a faintly pinched smile and was rewarded by a slight loosening of her grip on his fingers.  “You and I are going to travel together to Ostagar,” he said, “and there you’ll meet the other Wardens.  They’ll be your family from now on.”

            “I don’t remember my family; everyone I know is here in the Tower,” she hiccupped and wiped at her face roughly when Duncan dropped his hand from her cheek. 

            “Soon, you’ll have the entirety of the Fereldon Wardens to call brother.  Each and every one of them will be looking out for you; and you’ll be looking out for them as a sister would.”  Duncan smiled at her in relief as Sha gradually got herself under control.  Even he, untrained in the templar arts, had been able to feel the girl hemorrhaging unchecked magic. 

            Snuffling, Sha offered him a wavery smile. 

            “How about you get some rest now,” he offered as he reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek; his calloused fingers were rough but surprisingly gentle against her soft skin.  “You’ve had quite a couple days.  Later, you’ll need to pack your things; we leave first thing tomorrow morning.  You’ll need to have your ‘goodbyes’ said by then.” 

            She nodded at him, easing back to lay in her bed and pulled at her blanket till it covered her to her chin.  With a satisfied nod, Duncan turned and left the room.

            Alone with her thoughts, Shattered remained awake her eyes wide as they stared at the ceiling of her room, gaze darting back and forth as everything she knew unraveled. 

            Duncan had expected Cullen to be lingering nearby and as he quietly closed the door behind him, he wasn’t disappointed.  Standing against the opposite wall, a Templar in full plate stood to attention and approached, matching his step as the Warden Commander turned toward the guest chambers. 

            “Is there something more I can do for you, Ser Cullen,” he asked without looking at the man beside him. 

            A huffing sound came from inside the Templar’s helm.  “I don’t suppose you could take me as well,” he asked.  The plaintive tones would’ve torn at a younger Duncan’s heart, but if there was one thing he had learned in his lifetime, even before his life in the Wardens had started, it was that life wasn’t fair – least of all in matters of love. 

            “I’m afraid I’ve stretched the Revered Mother’s generosity pretty thin,” Duncan replied slowly. 

            “That seems a bit of an understatement,” Cullen snorted.  “Could you not invoke the Right of Conscription, as you did for Shattered?”

            “I try not to play that card too often, to be honest.  The Warden’s position in Fereldon isn’t nearly as strong as I’d like it to be,” Duncan’s mouth twisted to the side.

            “But the Blight?  Surely…”

            “Do not doubt, my young friend,” he spared a quick glance at Cullen.  “There is a Blight coming, though many do not believe it.  Or choose to ignore it.”  The older man’s shoulders lifted, then dropped in an expression of resignation.

            “So they don’t want to give up their people for a cause that might not be real.”

            “Especially people with secrets,” Duncan smiled. 

            “Like templar secrets,” Cullen sighed. 

            “Mmm,” Duncan’s response was noncommittal, but it hadn’t been a question. 

            “What do we do now,” Cullen asked as the pair stopped outside Duncan’s guest quarters.

            With his hand resting on the door knob, Duncan sighed.  “Say your goodbyes, Ser Cullen,” he said uncomfortably.  “We’ll be leaving at first light tomorrow.  Maybe next time I come to the tower to recruit…”  He trailed off as he gazed at the templar from under dark brows. 

            “Yes, maybe next time,” Cullen answered softly.  He stood quietly, watching as Duncan nodded and then went into his room.  A cold pit of despair was yawning open around his heart, spreading its chilly tendrils out from his core.  He turned on his heel and moved on stiff legs through the tower toward the templar wing.  The rooms and people he passed melded in a blur as his feet carried him onward to his own room.  With a sigh, he closed the door behind him and pulled off his helm before running his hand through his hair.  Frowning, he settled the headpiece over a bedpost and dropped his hands to his hips.

            There was an oaken chest at the foot of Cullen’s bed, polished to a rich brown and fortified with two steel bands.  It was the only place in a Templar’s room where they could secure personal items away from prying eyes.  Kneeling before it, Cullen took a deep breath before reaching out and lifting the lid.  A tray fit inside, just under the lid, where Cullen’s socks and other personal hygiene items were divided into sections.  Lifting the tray out, he placed it to the side on the floor.  In the space below, a small, red velvet pouch lay on top of neatly folded tunics in traditional templar colors and breeches of unassuming brown.  Gently, he lifted out the pouch and spilled its contents into his hand. 

            A necklace lay in his palm and as he tilted his hand, the delicate titanium chain twinkled in the light.  Gripping it lightly between his thumb and forefinger, Cullen lifted the chain from his hand, letting the crystal pendant dangle above his palm.  It was a prism, made of an octagonal shaft of clear quarts, nearly one inch long and not quick as thick as his pinky with one end tapered to a blunt point.  Titanium wire so thin it was little more than a thread twisted artfully around the crystal twice at the lower end before curving upward to the top where it repeated the design.  The wire gave the impression of a growing vine and the bail it joined to was cast as a leaf folding over the chain.  From inside the clear crystal, a soft glow emanated from the enchantment Cullen had the Tranquil imbue it with. 

            He sighed as he looked at the necklace; a great sadness settling over him like a mantle had been set upon his shoulders.  The necklace had been meant to be a promise between them, a vow that he would never be able to fulfill but would’ve made none the less because the knowing was as important to him as the doing.  Now, it could only be a small token to remember him by and an inadequate protection against the world beyond Circle walls.  Carefully, he held open the velvet pouch and returned the necklace to it.  His time was running out.

 

            Now that she had the grand total of her personal effects lain out across her bed, Shattered realized she had depressingly little.  Aside from a single cloak she’d been given for her trip to Redcliffe, she also had a leather belt with a few small pouches on it, two pairs of stockings, a second breast band, and several pairs of smallclothes all made from simple linen.  The mages didn’t have much and generally made due with hand washing their things when they became soiled, which meant nightly or every other night if they were careful and diligent with their stitching.  It was covering enough for in the tower, where the windows were enchanted to keep the cold winter weather on the outside, but Sha suspected she would need something much heavier very soon.  Kneeling at the side of her bed, Sha sighed and fingered her extra robe.  Everything felt so thin, threadbare and worn.  She would need to rely on the Wardens now, to put clothes on her back and food in her belly. 

            The Circle had provided for all her needs, clear down to the hair brush that lay on the bed with the rest of her things.  She owed it everything – her education, a bed to sleep in, the roof over her head and the clothes on her back.  The only thing that was truly hers had been made by her own hand. 

            Her grimoire. 

            Before the Circle started teaching mages new spells, but after they’d been taught to read and write, they would be instructed in the construction of their personal grimoire.  Shattered had been eight when she’d made her first one.  It had been small and badly made, as most children’s grimoires are, but it had been hers.  She’d made several since then and each time the construction had gotten better and more intricate.  She ran her fingers lightly over the cover now, smiling at the tingle of magic she felt from the book in response. 

            There was a reason each mage had to make their own grimoire; it was more than just a collection of the spells that mage had learned.  It contained their entire life between its covers, becoming a magical diary of sorts.  Ideas, experiments, potion recipes, even the ‘how’ of each spell they learned was recorded inside.  It was a lot of information to have contained in one place, a lot of personal information, so each mage had a secret way of encoding what was written inside.  Just as each mage cast the same spell differently – with a special flare unique to their own magic – each grimoire was encrypted in its own unique way.  The idea was that only the mage the grimoire belonged to would know how to read what was written inside. 

            It was a piece of herself, she decided as she picked up the tome.  The front and back cover were made from a thin sheet of mahogany covered in dark leather.  A cluster of three silver rose leafs protected each corner and the hinges that supported and bound the spine were a pair of the same silver leaves connected by a silver vine covered in thorns.  In addition to the words inside being written in code, most grimoires also contained a magical lock; Shattered’s was no different.  In the middle of the eleven by seventeen inch cover, a silver sigil rested.  It was a Celtic knot, shaped like six rose leaves, three smaller ones atop and slightly offset to three larger ones, and in the center of the knot a rose bud sat tightly closed.  When she touched the sigil with magic in her fingers, the bud bloomed to the size of her fist, full and beautiful. 

            There was a faint releasing sensation, and she felt the cover loosen under her touch.  Opening the tome, her eyes ran across the neat lines of script inside.  The black ink flowed across cream colored paper, a faint blue sparkle glittering within it indicating the lyrium used to make the enchanted words flow across the page and into her brain.  To anyone else, the scratching would look like the scribbling of a mad man, entwined as it was with drawings of runes, glyphs, and hieroglyphic designs whose meaning were known only to her.  But to Shattered, the mere touch of her skin on the page as it lightly ghosted across the ink sent a trill of power through her veins. 

            She sighed and closed the cover, touching the sigil once more with her magic.  She watched as the rose folded itself back up until it was just a tightly closed bud again and then placed the tome back on her bed.

            “Not very much for a young mage to be going out into the world with, is it?”  The rumbling voice came from behind her and Shattered jumped, her breath coming in a quick gasp, because she hadn’t heard anyone enter her room.  Looking over her shoulder, she breathed a sigh of relief and tried to slow the furious beating of her heart.

            “Knight-Commander,” she braced herself against the bed and stood then brushed at her robes.  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she pressed her lips together and turned to him with a smile.  “What can I do for you?”

            “It’s more what I can do for you, my dear,” Greagoir reached out a hand and rubbed his thumb across her cheek.  “You’ve grown up so fast,” his eyes glistened and he blinked several times as he pulled his hand away.  “And now here you are,” his voice had gone gruff with emotion, “getting ready to set out into the world.”  He smiled at her before continuing.  “What kind of person would I be if I didn’t give you something to mark the occasion?”

            “You don’t have to do that,” she said gently with a shake of her head.

            “I want to,” he told her emphatically.  “You may never be back here; I want you to have something to remember me by.”  He reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a small book.  It was the size of her hand, but looked much smaller in Greagoir’s grip.  He fingered the edges nervously as he looked down at it.  “It doesn’t seem like much now,” he laughed a little, “when I think about all you’ll be facing, as a Grey Warden.  This,” he gestured with it, “it’s an old man’s gesture, a hope for your future.”  With a trembling hand he held out the book to her.

            She accepted it, running her fingers over the white leather cover.  Time had worn the edges, and the leather was soft with age, but she could still read the title imprinted on the front in gold foiling.  “The Chant of Light,” she read, running her fingers over the cover.  She looked up at the Knight-Commander and smiled.  “Thank you,” she said, “truly.”

            “It was my mother’s, you see,” he explained as he stood there shifting awkwardly.  “She passed when I was very young and gave it to me.  For any children I might have,” he rubbed at the back of his neck.  “Before I knew it, time had slipped away from me.”  He gave a dry laugh and then reached out for her face with both hands, cupping her cheeks between his palms.  “You’re the closest thing I have to a daughter,” Greagoir explained as he searched her eyes.  “I feel it’s only right that you take it with you.”

            “I understand,” she said quietly, and closed her eyes as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

            “Stay safe, my girl,” he dropped his hands to her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze.  Smiling, Shattered blinked back tears of her own and nodded. 

            “I haven’t missed all the goodbyes, I hope?”  Irving sounded out of breath as he stood in the doorway.  Between his slim fingers, he held a long slim object covered in dark cloth.

            “No,” she said and wiped at her checks when Greagoir stepped quickly away.  “Duncan said we’ll be leaving in the morning.”

            “Good, then I wasn’t too late with this,” Irving smiled, his bushy beard and mustache twitching with the motion.  Taking the object he held in both hands, Irving held it out to her.  “We can’t have you leaving the tower without a staff,” he said, “so I had the Tranquil do a little something special for you.”

            “For me,” she asked uncertainly, glancing between the two men.  At Irving’s nod, she slowly reached out and pulled at the black fabric.  It slipped away from the object inside, fluttering to the floor to reveal a sharp edged blade the length of her forearm.  It was attached to a heartwood shaft by a strip of red leather that wound around the joint several times, binding it in place and Sha gave a small gasp as she recognized it.

            “The staff from the repository,” she whispered wonderingly as she stroked her fingers along the shaft. 

            “Yes,” Irving smiled at her, a quick flash of teeth through the grey of his beard.  “But with a modification that I think will be more to your liking.”

            Gripping the staff, Sha was once again amazed by the trill of power that sang through the heartwood when she held it.  Irving gave a single, smooth pull on the fabric and it fell away from the head of the staff, revealing the focus at the top.  Shattered sucked in a breath and blinked at the sudden sting in her eyes as she brought a hand up to cover her mouth. 

            “I thought you would like that,” Irving said, and Greagoir murmured his approval. 

            When she’d first seen the staff in the real world and not the Fade, a dark red crystal had sat at the apex.  Now, in place of the dull, pulsing red, a pale icy blue sparkled brightly from within a twisting nest of branches.   

            “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

            “Its name is Parthalan,” Irving told her as he folded the cloth over his arm.  “She will serve you well.”

            “Thank you,” she said with tears in her eyes.  Sha turned and carefully laid Parthalan across her bed then pulled the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander into a hug.  She received a kiss on the cheek from each of them and gave them each one in return.  “Thank you both.” 

            “Anytime, my girl,” Greagoir said as he tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear.  “We had to make sure we saw you before you went off on your grand adventure.”  Her lower lip trembled and Greagoir reached out to touch her face.  “None of that, now.  There’s a whole world out there just waiting to meet you.”

            “It won’t be all bad,” Irving told her gently.  “You’ll see.” 

            “Well, we should let her get back to packing her things,” Greagoir suggested as he gave her shoulder another squeeze. 

            “Yes, of course.”  The skin around Irving’s eyes crinkled with mirth.  “Maker watch over you,” he told Sha.

            “And also you,” she smiled back at them as they turned to go. 

            “Watch your step there, Greagoir,” Irving said in his raspy voice as he grabbed the templar’s elbow.

            “Hmm?”

            “It appears someone has slid a gift under our girl’s door,” he said as he leaned down and picked up a red velvet pouch.  Handing it over to her, the First Enchanter gave her a wink and then followed the Knight-Commander from the room. 

            Sha stared at the pouch for a few minutes as she stood there before widening the opening with two fingers and peeking inside.  A soft glow met her gaze as the crystal pendant inside illuminated the tiny space it was contained in.  Reaching in, Shattered plucked out the necklace, drawing out the titanium chain first and allowing the pendant to swing as it came free of the pouch. 

            “Oh,” she gasped and brought a hand to her mouth as tears filled her eyes.  Her smile trembled and her hands shook, but after the third try she was finally able to work the clasp.  She held up the pendant, smiling, and then tucked it under the collar of her robe.  


End file.
